“Jesse,” she said in a whisper, leaning in close as she poured his coffee, “what’s this I hear about racist fliers turning up in town? I also hear there was a cross-burning. And, jeez, with that poor woman being attacked in Swan Harbor . . . What’s going on?”
“Where’d you hear about all that?”
“Nothing goes on in this town I don’t hear about, so don’t stall or bullshit me, Jesse Stone. We’ve known each other too long for that. Me, I can take care of myself. Always have. Always will. Don’t mean I don’t worry or care about other folks.”
“I’m trying to track down the source of the fliers. We’ve got a suspect for the cross-burning but haven’t found him yet. The assault wasn’t in my jurisdiction, but it’s not good, any way you look at it.”
“Okay, Jesse, I’ll send the kid over.”
“Is it okay if he takes a break for five minutes and sits with me?”
Now she gave Jesse that crooked smile and wink. “One of the perks of being chief.”
Jesse fixed his coffee and watched as Daisy approached Cole. The smile he’d seen on the kid’s face when he walked in vanished when he sat down.
“Yeah, what?” he said, that chip on his shoulder returning with a vengeance. “I’m busy.”
“Then I won’t keep you long. Daisy says you’re good.”
“She’s pretty wacked out, but she’s nice enough,” he said, softening a little. “She was good to take me on. I guess I have you to thank for that.”
Jesse ignored that. “Listen, your stay at the hotel got cut short.”
“Shit!” Cole cursed under his breath. “I better get over there to get my things.”
“I’ve got your stuff.”
That set the kid off. “You looked through my things?”
“No. I’m not interested in your belongings. Connor packed your stuff. All I did was pick it up. But that’s not the issue.”
“What is?”
“Where you’re going to stay,” Jesse said. “And the beach at Pilgrim Cove isn’t an option.”
“How about the jail? You said I could spend a night there.”
“I did, but what about tomorrow night and the night after that?”
Cole shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I can get an advance from Daisy.”
“That’ll get you a night or two somewhere.”
“Look, I’m not your problem. Thanks for landing me the job and getting me the room. I’ll go get my stuff and then you don’t have to lose any sleep over me. I’ve been on my own for a while now. I got this far without your help.”
That was the thing Jesse kept coming back to. What is this kid even doing in Paradise? Jesse understood wanderlust. He understood the attraction small-town kids felt for places like L.A., Chicago, San Francisco, and New York. But this kid was from L.A., and as scenic as Paradise was, there didn’t seem to be anything here that was a magnet for someone with as much attitude as Cole Slayton.
Jesse held his palms up and faced them at the kid. “You’re right. You’re not my problem. C’mon, let’s get your stuff. I’m parked just down the block.”
“Just give me your keys. I’ll get my stuff. I promise not to steal your shotgun or anything.”
Jesse slid the keys to Suit’s pickup across the table. “Your things are in the front seat of the Dodge pickup. Belongs to one of my cops.” When the kid left, Jesse waved Daisy back.
“The kid doesn’t have a place to stay. You willing to let him stay in the back here for a few days?”
“I suppose. It’s not very comfortable, but at least there’s a bathroom.”
“He was sleeping on the beach across from Pilgrim Cove when I found him, so I don’t think he’ll complain much.”
“Can’t be permanent, Jesse. That won’t work for me.”
“Understood. And don’t say it was my idea.”
“What’s your investment in this kid, anyway? I mean, he’s good company and a hard worker, but I don’t get it.”
“I haven’t thought about it much. Just seems the right thing to do.”
“I’ve taken in a few strays myself. I guess I never gave too much thought to it, either.”
“You!”
“Don’t say it too loud. You’ll ruin my street cred,” she said. “Can’t have people thinking I’m soft.”
“No, can’t have that,” he said, standing to go and dropping a five on the table. “Thanks, Daisy.”
He passed Cole Slayton on the way out. Handing the pickup’s keys to Jesse, the kid opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out and he retreated into Daisy’s without looking back.
30
Molly was grinning her Cat: 1, Canary: 0 grin when Jesse got back to the station. It was hard for him not to notice.
“What is it, Molly?”
“What’s what?”
“That look on your face.”
“What look?”
“That grin is about as inconspicuous as the Citgo sign outside Fenway. Let’s have it.”
“Have what?”
“Is what your new vocabulary word for the day?”
“Could be.”
“Crane!”
“Peter got a hit on a fingerprint. Report’s on your desk.”
“Did Chief Forster call?”
Molly tilted her head. “That bag of leaves from Swan Harbor?”
“I might’ve misjudged him. He acted like a real cop today.”
“Acted being the operative word there.”
Jesse shook his head. “I don’t think so. There might be more to him than I thought.”
“He didn’t call.”
“Thanks.”
“Jesse . . .”
“What?”
“Stop stealing my vocabulary words.”
“Molly.”
She whispered to him, though no one else was around. “How’s the not drinking going?”
“Truth?”
“Always.”
“Not drinking was easy when it was pretending. Real sobriety is rough.”
Molly seemed to understand. “Better get in there and look at that report.”
“You’re still giving orders like the acting chief.”
“Sorry.”
Jesse gave a small fist pump and headed into his office. Any time he could get Molly to cave, even a little, was a small victory. But the minute he read the report on his desk, the sweet taste of victory turned rancid in his mouth. He looked back and forth between the photos of the man to whom the fingerprints on the fliers belonged and the accompanying pages.
Leon Oskar Vandercamp, aka the Colonel, aka the Lion, looked nothing like a big cat and more like a loyal patron of Colonel Sanders than a military officer. In his most recent photo he resembled an aging, balding, overweight businessman with jowls and neck skin so loose and expansive it nearly hid his shirt collar. Yet in spite of his girth and fleshy face, Vandercamp didn’t strike Jesse as the sort of man to play Santa Claus at the volunteer-firehouse Christmas party. There wasn’t an ounce of kindness in his cruel mouth or in his icy gray eyes. Jesse found even less humanity in the man’s history.
Jesse worked his way back from Vandercamp’s arrest record to the self-serving narcissism of the bio Molly had downloaded from the Saviors of Society website to the far-less-flattering histories she had culled from the Internet. The arrest record was long on misdemeanors—harassment, disorderly conduct, parade without permit, defacement of public property, defacement of private property, et al.—that could have easily been misinterpreted or dismissed as petty nuisances or minor violations, had Jesse not been able to match the arrests to newspaper accounts.
Vandercamp and his followers had shown up at funerals of Hispanic, African American, and Muslim soldiers and harassed the mourners. They’d destroyed Hanukah menorahs in publi
c holiday displays and painted Arbeit macht frei on the sidewalks surrounding Jewish cemeteries in small, upstate New York towns. He and his followers had come to several Martin Luther King Day celebrations wearing gorilla masks and waving Confederate flags. They would stand across the street from a hospice in a Pennsylvania town that took in AIDS victims and chant “Burn fags, not flags.”
There had been some violence, of course. That was the point. They incited others to violence, but none of the charges against Vandercamp or his followers had them throwing the first punch, tossing the first rock, or hurling the first bottle. It wasn’t lost on Jesse that many of the accounts mentioned that fliers had often preceded the public displays and demonstrations. But from what he could discern from Molly’s downloads, there had been a long lull in the group’s public activities. Jesse went online and searched for accounts of any recent dustups involving the Saviors of Society. There weren’t any. The last mention of Vandercamp dated back fourteen months to a story titled “The Future of Hate” in Rolling Stone.
“Our methods have failed to gain the necessary traction to move our righteous cause forward,” Vandercamp had admitted to the Rolling Stone interviewer. “Sometimes you just got to burn down the house to save it, even if you’re still inside. But you can’t start a fire with wet matches, son. So we either need to find a way to dry the ones we have or to find new ones.”
Vandercamp may have been many things Jesse Stone detested, but he wasn’t stupid. That was too bad, Jesse thought, grabbing his old glove off his desk. Stupidity in a criminal was a cop’s best friend. As he pounded the ball into the pocket of his glove, Jesse stared out the office window at Stiles Island and wondered about what was coming his way. His phone rang before his wondering got him very far.
31
It was Lundquist on the line.
Jesse said, “I had my hand on the phone to call you.”
“It’s magic how that works.”
“I doubt it.”
Lundquist was curious. “You don’t believe in magic?”
“I believe in evidence and taking the first pitch.”
“I like magic because I don’t mind being fooled when there’s nothing at stake. Why were you calling me, Jesse?”
“Leon Oskar Vandercamp?”
“Who? Guy sounds like he should be conducting an orchestra.”
“You’re not far wrong. He’s the head of the Saviors of Society. He’s a real piece of work. We got a hit on his fingerprints from the fliers.”
“No offense, Jesse, but their involvement wasn’t exactly a secret. It says it on the damned flier.”
“His were the only fingerprints on the fliers.”
“So?”
“So I think he’s close and that’s not good. Nothing good comes with him. You said you’d hook me up with some guy from Homeland Security.”
“Sorry, Jesse. I have a lot on my plate. I’ve got other cases besides Felicity Wileford, but she’s why I’m calling.”
“What about her?”
“Brain dead. She’s about to officially become my responsibility. The parents are on a South Pacific cruise, so it may take them a few days to get here to say good-bye, and to pull the plug. Worst part of the job, dealing with the parents. Does it ever get easier?”
“Gets worse.”
“Worse?”
“Knowing what’s coming can be more a curse than a blessing.”
“You’re a cheery bastard, Jesse. Thanks. No wonder you and Healy got along.”
“You asked,” Jesse said. “Steven Randisi.”
“The boyfriend? What about him?”
“Would you say he’s about my size?”
“An inch or two shorter. Why?”
“I have a witness says the SS fliers are connected to a guy he described as looking like a soldier. Says the guy’s about my size.”
“You think it’s Randisi?”
“I’m not sure what I think.”
“Jeez, Jesse, the guy’s got a prosthetic arm and I’ve had a few talks with him. He seems genuinely upset over what happened to Wileford.”
“So did the mother who drowned her kids and then went on TV and cried about her kids were kidnapped. She seemed genuine, too.”
“What’s with you? When we first met the guy, you were ready to blow him off as a suspect. Now he’s at the top of your most-wanted list.”
“I’m just working with what I’ve got, Brian.”
“Fair enough. Let me get on the Homeland Security thing for you.”
“Thanks.”
Jesse didn’t bother putting the phone back in its cradle. He called Chief Forster. Forster’s voice was subdued.
“Sorry, Jesse, I meant to call you, but—”
“I heard. I just got off the phone with Lundquist.”
“Terrible thing.”
“Violent death usually is.”
“I don’t know how guys like you and Lundquist do it. I never had the stomach for it. That’s why I worked community relations as soon as I got out of uniform.”
Jesse suppressed a laugh. “That experience will serve you well. I don’t figure your citizens are going to react well to a homicide in Swan Harbor.”
“You have no idea.”
“You’d be wrong about that. So did you show the photo to Roberto?”
“Randisi’s not your man. He said no without hesitation.”
“Good.”
“Says the guy you’re looking for approached his crew only once. The guy was wearing desert camo and boots. He’s square-jawed, keeps his blond hair cut real short. He’s big through the arms and chest.”
Jesse asked, “Anything else?”
“His eyes.”
“What about them?”
“Opaco. Roberto said he didn’t have the American word for it, but I looked it up.”
“What was the word?”
“Opaque. He said there was no soul behind the soldier’s eyes.”
Jesse had mixed feelings about his conversation with Forster. Part of him was glad Randisi wasn’t the soldier, but that left him with nothing but Vandercamp’s fingerprints and a knot in his belly.
32
Alisha checked herself out in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. She liked how she looked in her black leather jacket, low-slung sweater, and tight jeans. Though heels would’ve suited her style better, flats were the smarter choice after eight hours in cop shoes. She returned to the Gray Gull’s bar and was finishing her second Jack and Coke when her cell rang. Dylan Taylor, the new head of private security on Stiles Island, was already five minutes late and she wasn’t pleased about it at the moment. Nothing was sitting well with her just lately. Her food didn’t taste right. Her music didn’t sound right. Even the Jack and Coke wasn’t going down as smooth and warm as it had in the past. She was worn out.
It wasn’t the job that had taken the toll on her as much as the cross-burning and her inability to stop obsessing over what had happened at the Scupper. It had all gone so well up to then, until those asshole bikers rode into town. Everybody from Suit to Gabe to Molly had told her it was no big deal, that they’d all gone through similar troubles early in their careers on the PPD.
“Look, Alisha,” Molly said, “during my probationary period, I pulled over one of the selectmen for speeding near the elementary school. If it hadn’t been by a school, I think I would’ve let him go. But by the school, I just couldn’t give him a pass. He called me a bitch and made a really crude remark about my menstrual cycle. I didn’t like that very much and I lost it. I said some stuff to him that could’ve cost me my job. It happens to everybody.”
Suit and Gabe made it a point to tell her that there were no hard feelings about her pushing back when they showed up at the Scupper that day when she confronted the bikers. Suit told her that he would have been just as mad had t
heir roles been reversed. The thing was, their roles could never be reversed, not really. You couldn’t change the color of your skin.
It was amazing what getting called a nigger by some angry, uneducated fool had done to her. Those two syllables had kicked out the legs of her chair. And now she had to struggle not to see the world the way her father did. A hard and cynical man, he had begged her not to take the job in Paradise, but to stay home in New York and join the NYPD like he had.
“You’re not Rosa Parks, girl,” he’d told her. “Ain’t nobody gonna thank you or build you no statues for being the first African American woman on some pissant department in Massachusetts.”
More painful than hearing her father’s voice in her head like some sadistic earworm was her questioning Jesse’s motives for hiring her, doubting her colleagues’ acceptance of her, and wondering if Dylan saw her not as a woman he could love but as a prize. Okay, let’s scratch the hot black chick off the list of conquests. Next! But the worst of it was her self-recrimination, the nights spent beating herself up over her weakness, how easily she had let some stupid remark blow her up. That and her drinking.
She saw it was Dylan on the phone and answered. “You’re late.”
* * *
—
THE SOLDIER SAT IN THE FRONT SEAT of the Jeep with the kid. The soldier was his usual dead-calm self. At least that was the exterior he showed the kid. Inside, he was churning.
He said, “You know what to do, right?”
“Jeez, man, how many times are you going to ask me that?”
“As many times as it takes until I feel confident you understand the timing of this and to be sure you will do what you have to do.”
“Yeah, I know what to do and I’ll do it.”
“It won’t be easy. It’s never easy, no matter what you think.”
“So you keep saying. Didn’t the boys and me handle that thing in Swan Harbor?”
The soldier was tempted to slap the kid across the mouth. But the Colonel would never have stood for that and it was already too late to open the kid’s eyes and make him see his folly. Instead, he reminded the kid about what had happened the night of the cross-burning.
Robert B. Parker's Colorblind Page 10
