Killing the Blues

by Michael Brandman

  “To which Uncle Carter replied?”

  “‘We’ll see.’ ”

  “And have you made up your mind as to which events you’d like to present?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to tell me about them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here come those one-worders again.”

  “I want to begin with a rock festival. An all-day event. At the Paradise High School stadium.”

  “Funded by the board of selectmen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does Uncle Carter know?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m flattered that you chose to tell me first,” Jesse said. “When exactly were you planning on telling Uncle Carter?”

  “Stop saying ‘Uncle Carter.’”

  “When were you planning on telling the selectman?”

  “Soon.”

  “Soon would be good,” Jesse said. They sat silently for awhile.

  “May I ask you a question, Jesse?”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Would you consider having lunch?”

  “Lunch?”

  “With me.”

  “With you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean now?”

  Alexis laughed.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Jesse didn’t say anything.

  “Have you anything better to do,” she said.

  He looked at her intently.

  “Nothing I can think of,” he said.

  After agreeing to meet her at the juice bar in Nordmann’s Fitness Center, Jesse began to pack up. As he left his office, he stopped by Molly’s desk.

  “Would you do me a favor, Moll,” he said.

  “That depends,” she said.

  “Will you please phone Captain Healy’s office and ask if he could stop by my place on his way home this evening.”

  “Is it business or personal?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Is it a business call or a personal call?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “I’m not your social secretary, Jesse. I’m still reeling from the coffee incident.”

  “The coffee incident.”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Their conversation had attracted the attention of Suitcase, who was seated at the desk next to Molly’s. He was leaning forward in his chair, listening intently.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Molly said.

  “What if I said it was a business call?”

  “Then I’d most happily make it.”

  “And if I said it was personal?”

  “Then you could make it yourself.”

  “Well, it’s a business call.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “Because I said so, that’s how.”

  Molly didn’t say anything.

  “Have you always been such a hard case,” Jesse said.

  “Only since puberty,” Molly said.

  Jesse looked over at Suitcase, who quickly looked away.

  “Am I wearing a ‘kick me’ sign or something,” Jesse said, as he headed for the door. “Quit busting my chops and make the call, will you, please, Molly.”

  He left the building.

  After he’d gone, Molly looked at Suitcase, and they both burst out laughing.

  12

  Like all of the new-wave fitness centers, Nordmann’s was gigantic, football field–sized, containing every imaginable kind of electronic exercise machine. Jesse figured that if hyperactivity didn’t pose the members a danger, the intensified electromagnetic field in which they exercised would more than likely neuter them.

  He spotted Alexis Richardson among the treadmills. She waved to him. She was wearing tight blue leggings and a white tank top. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was jogging steadily on a treadmill that was running on high.

  When she noticed Jesse, she slowed her jog, then turned off the machine but kept walking until it came to a stop. She stepped off and picked up her towel, patting her face before wrapping it around her neck.

  “I’m a total fitness freak,” she said. “Have been since I was a girl. You?”

  “I was a baseball freak. Till I got hurt.”

  “You played baseball?”

  “I did.”

  “Were you any good?”

  “Triple-A good until I tore up my shoulder.”

  “So what do you do now?”

  “I jog.”

  “Jogging is good.”

  “And I sulk.”

  They wandered over to the juice bar and ordered a couple of healthy-looking sandwiches. They sat at one of the tables.

  “You do this a lot,” Jesse said.

  “Every day, if possible. I don’t really feel right unless I’ve done at least two hours. I start with the treadmill and end up with the heavy bag.”

  “You work out on the heavy bag?”

  “I do.”

  “You box?”

  “Not exactly. I kickbox. I was on my college team. It’s an artful sport. And there’s nothing quite like the exhilaration of a lethal kick.”

  “You mean you’ve killed people?”

  Alexis laughed.

  “It’s just an expression,” she said.

  They finished their lunch and she walked with Jesse to the door.

  “Thank you,” Alexis said. “It was lovely.”

  “Just like a first date,” Jesse said. “Do you kiss and tell?”

  “Don’t tease me, Jesse. I like you.”

  “Ditto,” he said.

  Once home, Jesse stepped out of his clothes and into the shower. The steaming-hot water never failed to help ease the tensions of the day. He had just begun to feel better when he realized that someone was pounding on his door.

  “Shit,” he said.

  Then he hollered, “All right.”

  He turned off the shower, dried himself the best he could, wrapped the towel around his waist, and gingerly made his sodden way to the kitchen, where he picked up his pistol. He press-checked it and went to the door.

  It was Captain Healy.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” Healy said.

  Jesse stared at him.

  Healy noticed Jesse’s gun.

  “Were you planning to shoot me,” he said.

  “You can’t be too careful,” Jesse said.

  “Why don’t you attend to your dishabille,” Healy said. “I’ll see myself in.”

  When Jesse returned, wearing jeans and a sweater, he found Healy on the top step of the porch, holding a piece of Jesse’s sliced chicken.

  The black-and-white cat was standing directly in front of him, tentatively eating the chicken from his hand.

  When Jesse stepped outside, the cat bolted. It leapt from the porch and dashed headlong into the bushes.

  “I’m a cat person,” Healy said. “Always have been. We currently have six. My wife calls me the Cat Whisperer.”

  “The Cat Whisperer,” Jesse said.

  “Unlikely, isn’t it? I’m an anomaly.”

  “That’s only the half of it.”

  “So what do you know,” Healy said.

  “Had to have been a newbie. Some low-life wannabe who came aboard when the operation expanded. Not a professional.”

  “Okay,” Healy said.

  “So he botches it. Dickwad thinks he’s hit himself a home run. Gets rattled when the owner discovers him. Goes ballistic and kills the guy. Mob boys won’t have been happy. Car theft isn’t meant to be lethal.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “It’s what my gut tells me.”

  “What about the killer?”

  “Most likely pushing up daisies in Paradise Gardens.”

  “So what are you gonna do?”

  “I’m gonna run a break tomorrow. I’ve convinced Hansen to buy me a couple of Hondas. I’m gonna station them at critical locations and surveil them.”

  “An
d?”

  “I’m gonna tail whoever shows up.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘whomever’?”

  “Try not to parade your ignorance. I wanna spot them. See what happens.”

  “To what end?”

  “Information-gathering. I don’t really care about the small potatoes. What interests me is the big fish,” Jesse said.

  “Which reminds me, we’re having snapper for dinner,” Healy said. “I gotta go.”

  Once at the door, he turned back to Jesse.

  “This could lead to some unpleasantness, Jesse,” Healy said. “You’re gonna want to be careful.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  “Like hell you are,” Healy said.

  After Healy had gone, Jesse went to the kitchen and got a couple of slices of chicken. He took them outside. He held a slice in his outstretched hand and called to the cat.

  It didn’t appear.

  His arm began to tire. At last he placed the chicken on the step, stood up, and went inside.

  “Cat Whisperer,” he said.

  He turned off the lights and went to bed.

  13

  Jesse collected the Hondas at noon. He brought Molly and Suitcase along, both of them in civilian clothing.

  Suitcase drove the Accord directly to the police station and parked behind the building.

  Molly drove the Civic to Paradise Mall, parking in a prearranged location. She got out of the car, made a show of gathering her belongings, then entered the mall.

  She walked straight through and exited via a side door, where she was met by Rich Bauer. She got into his cruiser, and together they returned to the station.

  The Civic remained where Molly had left it.

  Three rows away, Peter Perkins sat low in the driver’s seat of an unmarked Chevy, watching the Civic.

  From a different vantage point, Jesse sat in his Ford Explorer, sipping coffee, also watching.

  The hours passed and no one paid any attention to the Civic.

  On cue, Peter Perkins drove away from the mall and was replaced by Arthur Angstrom, driving his Jeep Wrangler. Jesse remained in the Explorer.

  When darkness began to settle, Bauer dropped Molly off at the mall. She backtracked through it on her way to the Civic, which she unlocked, got into, and drove away.

  At the same time that Molly was leaving the mall, Suitcase was parking the Accord in front of the Cineplex Odeon Twelve. He got out of the car and went inside.

  Arthur Angstrom drove his Wrangler past Suitcase just as he was entering the cinema. Angstrom parked several rows behind the Accord. He settled in to keep watch.

  Jesse was parked nearby. He carefully unwrapped a meatball sandwich from Daisy’s and ate it while he watched.

  Nothing happened.

  After all of the movies in the Cineplex had ended and the parking lot was emptying, Suitcase, Arthur, and Jesse each went their separate ways, calling it a night.

  It was close to midnight when Jesse finally got home, bonetired.

  He exercised caution before entering the house. Rollo Nurse caution, he deemed it. He carefully walked the perimeter. He determined that it hadn’t been invaded. He opened the door and went inside.

  “You can’t be too careful these days,” he said, to no one in particular.

  He placed his gun on the kitchen counter, then went directly to the cupboard and took down a can of cat food. After emptying the contents into a bowl, he turned the porch lights on and stepped outside.

  He picked up the empty bowl and replaced it with the full one. He turned to go back inside but suddenly stopped.

  Sitting on the love seat, staring at him, was the cat. Jesse stood frozen in his tracks.

  “I’m Jesse,” he said to the cat.

  The cat didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll just step inside now,” Jesse said, as he walked gingerly toward the French doors.

  Although it didn’t attempt a getaway, the cat remained on alert.

  Once inside, Jesse watched it jump off the love seat, saunter casually to the dish, crouch down, and eat.

  Jesse smiled.

  He forced himself to climb the stairs. He lay down on the bed fully clothed. He was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

  14

  The Greyhound bus arrived in Boston on schedule. Rollo Nurse collected his things, stepped off the bus, and went inside the depot.

  The Paradise bus wasn’t scheduled to leave for another hour. Rollo bought a copy of the Paradise Daily News and sat down to study it. He leafed immediately to the “Rooms for Rent” section in the classifieds.

  “Room to let in private home” caught his attention. “Walking distance to downtown. Nonsmoking. Clean. Quiet. Private bath. Contact Agatha Miller.” It listed a number.

  Rollo placed the call from one of the depot’s decrepit phone booths. It was the voice of an older person that answered.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Is this Mrs. Miller?”

  “This is Miss Miller.”

  “Miss Miller,” Rollo said. “My name is Donald Johnson. I saw your ad in the paper. Is the room still for rent?”

  “It is still for rent. Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred and twenty-five dollars per week. It also comes with a refrigerator.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “What?”

  “Can I see the room?”

  “You may.”

  “Can I see it this afternoon? I could move in right away.”

  “You say you want to move in today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I see. What time were you thinking?”

  “Around three o’clock.”

  “Very well, Mr. . . .”

  “Johnson,” Rollo said.

  “Johnson. Yes. I forgot,” Miss Miller said. “The address is Twenty-four Compton Street. I’ll be awaiting your visit. Three o’clock.”

  “Yeah,” Rollo said. He hung up.

  The bus pulled into its slot in front of the Paradise Harbor Ferry Terminal. Rollo was the first to get off. He picked up his bag and went inside.

  He bought a Paradise street map at the newsstand. He paid for it, got himself a coffee, and sat down to study the map.

  He located Compton Street and traced the walking route from the terminal. He estimated he could make it in less than an hour. Although he would arrive earlier than expected, he set out immediately.

  Compton turned out to be more of a lane than an actual street, barely wide enough to accommodate two cars. There were a total of six homes on Compton Street.

  Two were grand-style New England Colonials, each set on acre-plus lots, each in pristine condition. There was a slightly run-down Cape Cod, a colorful split-level, and a pair of two-story Craftsman houses. The mature plantings and lush foliage lent the neighborhood a quaint, woodsy flavor.

  The Miller house was one of the Craftsmans. It was carefully tended but weathered, sitting in the middle of a small lot. Rollo knocked on the door.

  He heard the sound of footsteps, and then an elderly woman peered through the curtains.

  “Yes,” the woman said.

  “Donald Johnson,” Rollo said.

  “Oh. Mr. Johnson. You’re early.” She opened the door.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  The woman, who wore spectacles with thick lenses, gave Rollo the once-over. Despite some misgivings regarding his unsightly appearance, she stood back and allowed him to enter.

  “It’s nice here,” Rollo said.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I grew up in this house. My father built it himself.”

  “You live here alone?”

  “Ever since my sister passed.”

  She showed Rollo to a small first-floor bedroom, situated at the rear of the house, at one time a maid’s quarters. As advertised, it was clean, had a half-sized refrigerator and a small private bath.

  She showed him the rest of the ground floor, explaining that the upstairs would
be off-limits to him. He was, however, welcome to use the kitchen. He would also have use of the sitting room and TV. The backyard would be his to enjoy as well.

  She asked if he might like to join her in a cup of tea.

  As she stood filling the kettle, Rollo sat gazing at the kitchen with its paintings of dogs, decorative ceramic tiles, and colorful floral arrangements.

  “You garden,” he said.

  “Why, yes. Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

  “I like flowers. These ones are very nice. Maybe you could put some in my room.”

  “That’s certainly possible,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

  She served the tea. She placed a jar of honey on the table. She brought out a box of Social Tea biscuits. She put some on a dish, which she set down in front of him.

  “Help yourself,” she said.

  Rollo sipped his tea and ate several of the biscuits.

  “This is nice,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “What brings you to Paradise, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Summer,” he said.

  “A vacation?”

  “A vacation from Kansas.”

  “You’re from Kansas?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’ll be doing . . .”

  “Mostly, I’ll be reading,” he said. “Studying the Bible.”

  “I envy you your reading,” Miss Miller said. “Ever since this macular thing got me, my reading has been severely curtailed.”

  “That’s too bad,” Rollo said.

  Agatha Miller looked closely at him. She found his off-putting appearance and his coarseness unsettling.

  “Have you any references, Mr. Johnson? You see, as a woman alone . . .”

  “I don’t have any, no. I never thought I’d need any,” Rollo said. “See, I was planning to stay at a residence hotel. Then I saw your ad. I’ll leave now, if you want.”

  Rollo waited for her answer. There would be consequences if she said he had to leave. He looked inward, listening for the voices, waiting for possible instruction.

  Agatha Miller considered the prospect of giving up the only rental opportunity that had, to date, presented itself.

  In the end, she overcame her reservations and surrendered to commerce. She needed the money.

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Johnson. I’m sure we can work something out.”