Sea Change js-5
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“Zero tolerance,” Jesse said.
“Egad,” Jenn said at Daisy’s door. “Maybe we should have gone to the Gull.”
The door was open and the line of people waiting was out onto the sidewalk.
“Be the same,” Jesse said. “It’s like this everywhere.”
Several people on the sidewalk had drinks. Jesse ignored them.
“Selective enforcement?” Jenn said.
“You bet,” Jesse said. “They’re just waiting to have lunch.
They won’t do any harm. Besides, I don’t want to hurt Daisy’s business.”
“Is there actually a Daisy?”
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“I’ll introduce you,” Jesse said.
“But first, could you arrest somebody at a good table,”
Jenn said. “So we can have it.”
“I’ll talk to Daisy. Stay here.”
Jesse slid past the crowd and in through the open door. He came back out with a strapping red-faced blond woman wearing a big white apron and holding a spatula. The woman pointed at Jenn.
“You Jenn?” she said.
“I am.”
“I’m Daisy, get your ass in here,” she said.
A woman in wraparound sunglasses and a large straw hat said, “We’ve been waiting half an hour.”
“And you’ll wait a lot longer,” Daisy said, “you keep talking.”
“But they . . .”
Daisy waved the spatula under the woman’s chin.
“My restaurant,” Daisy said. “I decide. Come on, Jenn.”
Jenn slid sheepishly in behind Daisy, and followed her to a table by the back window where Jesse was drinking root beer. Inside, the restaurant was not crowded. The tables were well spaced and the conversation was absorbed by carpeting and sailcloth that draped the ceiling.
“Sorry I left you twisting in the wind out there,” Jesse said.
Jenn sat down.
“A woman outside hates me,” she said.
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“Oh fuck her,” Daisy said. “I can’t find a table for the chief of police and his friend, what good am I?”
“Excellent point,” Jenn said. “Can I have a root beer, too?”
“Sure you can, darlin’, I’ll send the waitress right over.”
“Thank you, Daisy.”
“You bet,” Daisy said. “I was you I’d order one of the sandwiches, I just baked the bread this morning.”
Jenn smiled. Daisy swaggered off.
“Heavens,” Jenn said.
Jesse nodded.
“Daisy Dyke,” he said.
“Is that her real name?”
“No, I don’t know her real last name. Everybody calls her Daisy Dyke. She calls herself Daisy Dyke. She had to be talked out of calling the restaurant Daisy Dyke’s.”
“She is, I assume, a lesbian.”
“She is.”
“And she is, I assume, out.”
“As far out as it is possible to be out.”
“She have a partner?”
“She has a wife,” Jesse said. “They got married May twen-tieth, right after the Massachusetts law passed.”
“Mrs. Daisy Dyke?”
“Angela Carson,” Jesse said. “She kept her own name.”
“Is Angela a housewife?”
“Angela paints,” Jesse said.
“Well?”
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“No,” Jesse said.
“But persistently,” Jenn said.
“That would be Angela,” Jesse said.
Jenn ordered an egg salad sandwich on sourdough. Jesse had a BLT on whole wheat.
“Never order that on a date,” Jesse said. “Too messy.”
“What the hell am I,” Jenn said.
“I don’t know,” Jesse said, “but whatever you are, date is too small a word.”
Jenn smiled at him.
“Yes,” she said, “I guess it is, isn’t it?”
“We’ll come up with something,” Jesse said.
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15
W ith the harbormaster at the wheel, they had visited five yachts, three of them
from Fort Lauderdale, anchored at the
outer edge of the harbor. The harbormaster was new. His name was Hardy Watkins. He was overweight and red-faced, and, on those rare moments when he took off his long-billed cap, he was mostly bald.
“Where to next?” Watkins said.
“How about that one over there,” Jesse said. “Black with a yellow stripe.”
He and Suitcase Simpson stood on either side of Watkins as the squat harbor boat plugged through the low swell.
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Among the yachts it looked like a warthog. Jesse wore jeans and sneakers and his softball jacket over a white tee shirt.
Simpson was in uniform. He carried a transparent folder with head shots from the sex video.
“Sloop there with the cutter rig,” Watkins said.
“Sure,” Jesse said.
He looked at Simpson.
“You know what a sloop is?” Jesse said. “With a cutter rig?”
“Hey,” Simpson said, “I grew up here. Paradise, Massachusetts, the sailing capital of the world.”
“So you know what a sloop is,” Jesse said. “With a cutter rig.”
“No,” Simpson said.
“Sloop’s a single-masted boat,” Watkins said.
“And a cutter?”
“Single-masted boat with the mast set further aft.”
“So what’s a sloop with a cutter rig.”
With one hand on the wheel, Watkins pointed at the yacht ahead of them.
“That,” he said.
“You don’t know either,” Jesse said.
“I do,” Watkins said, “but you’re too fucking landlocked to understand the explanation.”
“Good,” Jesse said.
Watkins steered the harbor boat under the stern of the yacht. The name lady jane was stenciled across the stern.
And beneath it, miami. A small landing float bobbed beside the Lady Jane, and Watkins brought the harbor boat softly 6 6
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up against it. Simpson leaned over and secured the stern of the harbor boat to a cleat. Then he climbed past the small cockpit and onto the short deck and secured the bow. Jesse climbed the short stairs to the deck of the Lady Jane. Simpson followed with the pictures.
A crewman in uniform met them. Jesse took his badge out of the pocket of his softball jacket and showed it.
“I’m Jesse Stone, Paradise Police. This is Officer Simpson.”
“I’m Nils Borgman,” the crewman said with a small accent. “First mate.”
Jesse glanced around the yacht.
“Sloop with a cutter rig,” he said.
“Yes sir,” Borgman said. “It is.”
Simpson looked carefully out to sea.
“I’ll need to talk to everyone on board,” Jesse said. “Who do I see about that.”
“What is this about, sir?” Borgman said.
“Investigating the death of a young woman, we’re trying to find anyone who recognizes her.”
“Do you need a warrant or something for that?” Borgman said.
“No,” Jesse said.
“I’ll speak to the captain, sir. I’m sure he’ll consult with Mr. Darnell.”
“Mr. Darnell is the owner of this cutter-rigged sloop?”
Jesse said.
“Yes sir. Please wait here.”
Jesse and Simpson waited, squinting in the brightness of 6 7
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the sun and its seaborne reflection. Below them the harbor boat swayed gently against the boarding float. Watkins was sitting behind the tiller reading a book, the long bill of his cap pulled low to keep the sun from his eyes. A dozen other yachts rode anchor in sight, and back in the harbor, the
clutter of smaller boats seeming closer together from the deck of the Lady Jane than they actually were.
The deck was dark polished wood. Probably teak, Jesse thought, or some other wood that could resist the salt water.
Polished brass was nearly everywhere. Under a canopy in the cockpit lunch was being eaten and drunk, by a group of three men and three women, seated on built-in couches on either side of a built-in table. A man in a hat with lots of gold braid came from forward into the dining area and spoke softly to one of the men at lunch. The man listened and nodded and turned to look at Jesse and Simpson. Then he got up and walked back to them.
“Harrison Darnell,” he said. “What’s all this?”
“We’re investigating the death of a young woman,” Jesse said, “and we need to show some pictures to everyone on board, see if they recognize anyone.”
“I’ll discuss this with my attorney, if you don’t mind,”
Darnell said.
“I don’t mind,” Jesse said. “Of course, I guess we’ll need to round up everybody on board and bring them into the station for questioning.”
“You can’t do that.”
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“Of course I can, Mr. Darnell. But by all means call your attorney first.”
Mr. Darnell was wearing blue flip-flops, pale khaki shorts and a red short-sleeved shirt decorated with a pattern of blue flowers. The shirt was open. He wore some sort of braided leather around his neck. His hairless chest was tanned, as was the rest of him. His blond hair was shoulder length, kept off his face by sunglasses worn, as if pushed up casually, on his head. His face was old enough looking so that Jesse suspected artifice in the hair color. You didn’t often see a man with absolutely no hair on his chest, Jesse thought.
Jesse wondered if Darnell shaved it. Maybe it was gray.
“Oh for crissake,” Darnell said.
He turned back into the lunch area.
“People,” he said. “I’m sorry. The local gendarmes wish to show you some pictures. They’ve promised it won’t take long.”
One blond woman with a long oval face squealed as she turned and looked at them.
“Ohmigod,” she said. “The fuzz.”
She was wearing a bikini bathing suit and huge sunglasses. She had a nearly empty glass of champagne in her hand. Because she was sitting on a blue-and-yellow-striped couch, Jesse couldn’t see well enough to be sure, but he was confident that the bikini bottom was a thong.
“Show them the pictures,” Jesse said.
Suit stepped to the table and showed them to the blonde.
Jesse watched her face. It was why he had Simpson show the 6 9
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pictures, so he could stand and look for a reaction. She barely glanced at the photographs.
“Nobody I know,” she said and looked back at Jesse.
“How come he’s wearing a uniform and you’re not?” she said, and emptied her champagne glass and held it out toward the crew member in charge of pouring. He refilled it.
“I’m the chief,” Jesse said. “I get to wear what I want.”
Simpson showed the picture to the man beside the blonde. The blonde drank some champagne.
“And you chose that?” she said.
Jesse was studying the face of the man looking at the pictures.
“They do call it plain clothes,” Jesse said.
She drank again and shifted a little so he could see the line of her thigh better. Jesse kept his eyes on her companions, as, one at a time, they looked at the pictures.
“Are you carrying your gun?” the blonde said.
“In case of pirates,” Jesse said.
The blonde took a cigarette from a silver cigarette case.
The man next to her snapped a lighter. She inhaled deeply and took a drink of champagne and let the smoke out through her nose while she swallowed. Simpson showed the pictures to the final person at the table. No one recognized them and no one had shown any reaction to them.
“There, now can you have a nice drink?” the blonde said.
“Show it to the crew,” Jesse said to Simpson.
“Well, isn’t he a good big boy,” the blonde said, “doing everything the chief says.”
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Jesse was studying each crew member as the pictures were shown. No recognition, no reaction.
“Why do you keep staring at everybody,” the blonde said.
“Clues,” Jesse said, “I’m looking for clues.”
“Oh pooh,” the blonde said. “Why don’t you join us for a nice cocktail?”
“What could be better?” Jesse said. “Except I’m afraid that Suit here would rat me out to the Board of Selectmen.”
“Why do you call him Suit?” the blonde said.
Amazing, Jesse thought, no matter what she says, she manages to make it sound like a challenge. Jesse nodded at Suit.
“My name’s Simpson, ma’am, and there used to be a ballplayer named Suitcase Simpson, so the guys started calling me that, and it sort of got shortened to Suit.”
She laughed and finished her glass of champagne and held it out toward the pourer.
“What a boring answer,” she said.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Simpson said. “The question wasn’t all that interesting, either.”
The blonde had a full glass again. She drank, and took in a big inhale and held it for a while before she let it out slowly, blowing the smoke out in a thin stream toward Jesse and Simpson. She shook her head.
“Local yokels,” she said and turned away back toward her lunch mates.
Darnell had been standing throughout the picture showing.
Now he stepped forward. He was taller than Jesse and exag-gerated the difference in height by bending forward to speak.
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“If there’s nothing else,” he said.
“Can’t guarantee that,” Jesse said. “But there’s nothing else right now.”
He took a card case from his jacket pocket, took out a number of cards and tossed them on the lunch table.
“If anyone has anything, remembers anything, sees any of these people, whatever, please call me.”
The blonde ostentatiously reached out, picked up one of the cards, looked at it for a moment and then tucked it into the top of her bikini bottom.
“Maybe I’ll call you, Jesse,” she said.
“Or e-mail me,” Jesse said. “Localyokel.com.”
Hanging from the corner of the dining area, there was an ornamental brass monkey sitting on an ornamental brass tra-peze bar, with a long brass ornamental tail. Jesse stopped to look at it.
“Not anatomically correct,” Jesse said. “Must have been very cold somewhere.”
He chucked the monkey under its chin, smiled at the lunch crowd and went down the ladder behind Simpson.
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16
J esse was in his office watching the Florence Horvath sex video when Jenn knocked and
entered without waiting.
“Jesse, I . . .”
She stared at the screen.
“Jesse, you pervert,” she said.
“Evidence,” Jesse said. “Care to watch?”
Jenn stood for a minute looking at the threesome on the screen.
“Oh, ick!” she said.
Jesse clicked the remote. The image froze. He clicked again. The screen went dark. Jenn wrinkled her nose.
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“I’m looking for something,” Jesse said.
“I hope so,” Jenn said. “The image of you sitting alone in your office watching a gang bang is not a pretty one.”
“I think a gang bang requires more people,” Jesse said.
“This is more a ménage à trois, I believe.”
“It’s a ménage à yuck,” Jenn said. “What are you looking for?”
“Something I sa
w on a yacht yesterday afternoon,” Jesse said. “A brass monkey with a long brass tail, and I have some sort of subliminal memory that I saw something like it, or part of it, or something brass, on this tape.”
“A brass monkey tail,” Jenn said.
“Yeah,” Jesse said. “And the couch on the boat where they were eating lunch was the same color as the bed she’s having her liaison on.”
“Blue-and-yellow stripe,” Jenn said.
“Wow, you journalists are observant.”
“I think the correct phrase is still weather weenie, ” Jenn said. “At least until after they air my Race Week special.”
“Okay, ween,” Jesse said. “You’re still observant, want to help me watch?”
“Okay,” Jenn said, “but you better not enjoy it.”
Jesse clicked the remote again. The tape proceeded. Jesse and Jenn watched silently. As Florence shifted slightly in her delight, the camera moved right to stay on her, and something gleamed fractionally in the right corner of the screen.
“There,” Jenn said.
Jesse froze the frame, but it was past the flash. He rewound, 7 4
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and went forward and froze the frame again, and this time he got it. Curling into the picture was a brass monkey tail.
“Every person on that boat said they didn’t recognize anyone in the pictures,” Jesse said.
“It doesn’t actually prove that it’s the same boat.”
“No, but it’s a pretty good coincidence,” Jesse said. “And coincidence just isn’t useful in cop work.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Get some stills made,” Jesse said.
“Then what?” Jenn said. “Confront them with it?”
“First I think I’ll check more on the boat. Some of those yachts are rented. These people may not have been aboard when Florence was. I need to be sure it has been around these parts long enough. She was in the water awhile.”
Jenn nodded.
“Why do you think she made that tape?” Jenn said.