Night Passage

by Robert B. Parker

  “Really?”

  “Really. It’s a free country. I should he able to do what I want.”

  “And this is what you want?” Jesse said. “Sit on the wall and smoke dope.”

  “You can’t prove I’m smoking dope.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “So why don’t you leave me alone then?”

  “Why don’t you go to school?”

  “School sucks,” Michelle said.

  Jesse grinned.

  “Babe, you got that right,” he said. “You know that Paul Simon song, ‘When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school/It’s a wonder I can think at all’?”

  “Who’s Paul Simon?”

  “A singer. Anyway, yeah, school sucks. It’s one of the great scams in American public life. On the other hand, most people grind through it. How come you don’t?”

  “I don’t have to, I’m seventeen.”

  “True,” Jesse said.

  They were both quiet for a time. Michelle kept looking at Jesse as covertly as she could.

  “My sister says she sees you sometimes down the Gray Gull having drinks,” she said.

  “Un huh.”

  “So how come that’s okay and smoking dope isn’t?”

  “It’s legal and smoking dope is illegal.”

  “So that makes it right?” Michelle said.

  “Nope, just legal and illegal.”

  Michelle opened her mouth and then closed it. She was trying to think. Finally she said, “Well, that sucks.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “Lot of things suck,” he said. “After a while you sort of settle for trying not to suck yourself, I guess.”

  “By pushing kids around?” Michelle said.

  Jesse turned his head slowly and held her gaze for a moment.

  “Am I pushing you around, Michelle?”

  She shrugged and looked absently at the white meeting house across the street.

  “What do you think you’ll be doing in ten years?” Jesse said.

  “Who cares?” Michelle said.

  “Me,” Jesse said. “You ever see any thirty-year-old people sitting on the wall here, smoking dope?”

  Michelle gave a big sigh.

  “Oh please,” she said, drawing out the second word.

  Again Jesse nodded.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know. Lectures suck too.”

  She almost smiled for a moment, and then looked even more sullen to compensate. The boys by the shopping center had fired of watching them and drifted off. On the front porch of the town library, across the common, a young woman with a small child clinging to her skirt, and another on her hip, was sliding books into the library return slot. Jesse wondered briefly when she got time to read.

  “You think I’m going to end up like her?” Michelle said, nodding at the woman.

  “No,” Jesse said.

  “Well, I’m not,” Michelle said.

  Jesse was quiet.

  “So what about right and wrong?” Michelle said after a time.

  “Right and wrong?”

  “Yeah. You said stuff was just legal or illegal. Well, what about it being right or wrong? Doesn’t that matter?”

  “Well, I’m not in the right or wrong business,” Jesse said. “I’m in the legal and illegal business.”

  “Oh, that’s a cop-out,” she said. “You just don’t want to answer.”

  “No, I don’t mind answering,” Jesse said. “That was part of my answer. There’s something to be said for trying to do what you’re paid to do, well.”

  He was aware that she was suddenly looking at him directly.

  “And sometimes that’s the best you can do. The other thing is that most people don’t have much trouble seeing what’s right or wrong. Doing it is sometimes complicated, but knowing the right thing is usually not so hard.”

  “You think so,” Michelle said in a tone that said she didn’t.

  “Sure. You and I both know, for instance, that sitting on the wall all day smoking grass isn’t the right thing for you to do with your life.”

  “Who the hell are you to say what’s right for me?” Michelle said.

  “The guy you asked,” Jesse said. “And chasing you off the wall is obviously not the right way to help you do the right thing.”

  “So why the hell are you sitting here blabbing at me?” Michelle said.

  Jesse smiled at her.

  “Trying to do the right thing,” he said.

  Michelle stared at him for a long moment.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said. “You’re weird.”

  Jesse took a business card out of the pocket of his white uniform shirt and gave it to Michelle.

  “You need help sometime,” Jesse said, “you can call me.”

  Michelle took the card, as if she didn’t know what it was.

  “I don’t need any help,” she said.

  “You never know,” Jesse said and stood up. “It’s what else we do,” Jesse said, and turned and walked back to his car.

  She stared at him as he walked and watched the car as it pulled away. She watched it up Main Street until it turned off onto Forest Hill Avenue and out of sight. Then she looked at the card for a moment and put it into the pocket of her jeans.

  Chapter 41

  THE DISK JOCKEY AT THE 86 Club wore a ruffled white shirt and a tuxedo vest with silver musical notes embroidered on it. He played records and did some patter but the noise with or without the music was so loud in the low room that no one could hear what he said. A few people danced, but most of them were sitting and drinking at tiny tables, jammed into the space in front of the long bar.

  Tammy Portugal was alone, crowded onto a barstool, drinking a Long Island iced tea and smoking Camel Lights. She was wearing tight tapered jeans and spike heels and no stockings and a short-sleeved top that exposed her stomach. She had put on her best black underwear, too, in case anything developed. She had cashed her alimony check. There was money in her purse. The kids were at her mother’s until tomorrow afternoon. She had a night, and half a day, when she could do anything or nothing, however she pleased.

  Across the room she knew he had been looking at her and finally she let her eyes meet his. He looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger, but handsomer. Fabio, maybe. Big muscles, long hair. His pale eyes had a dangerous look, she thought, and it excited her. She had seen him before on her night out, and she had watched him as he moved through the bar. Watched how careful other men were around him. Watched how many of the women looked after him as he walked past. She had, she knew, been thinking of him when she put on the good black underwear. She wondered if he was gentle in bed, or rough. She felt the sudden jolt along her rib cage as she realized he was walking toward her.

  “Hi,” he said. “What are you drinking?”

  She liked the way he came on to her. He didn’t ask if she was alone. A man like him wouldn’t have to worry about whether she was alone. If he wanted her, he’d take her.

  She told him what she was drinking, trying to keep her voice down. She liked the throaty sound one of the actresses made on one of her soap operas, and she practiced it sometimes with a tape recorder when she was alone.

  He wedged his body into the crowded bar, making room beside her where there had been none. “Seven and ginger,” he said to the bartender, “and a Long Island iced tea.”

  He leaned one elbow on the bar and looked straight on into her eyes. She swiveled on her barstool, as if to talk with him better, and managed it so that her knee would press against his thigh.

  “I’ve seen you before,” he said to her.

  They had to lean very close to each other to be heard over the clamor of the hot room.

  “I’m out about once a week,” she said, “looking for the right guy.”

  “Maybe you’re in luck,” he said.

  “Maybe I am.”

  She tilted her head back a little and lowered her eyelids and gave him an appraising look.

  “You mu
st be single,” he said. “I had something like you at home, I wouldn’t let you out.”

  “Divorced,” she said.

  “Because?”

  “Because my husband was a jerk.”

  “He’s still a jerk,” she said, “but he ain’t my husband anymore.”

  “Kids?”

  “Two. My mother’s got them until tomorrow afternoon.”

  He nodded as if that answered the final question. He was wearing a dark blue polo shirt and white pants and boat shoes with no socks. Everything fitted tightly over his obvious musculature, and when he raised his glass to drink, his bicep swelled as if it would burst the short sleeve.

  The disk jockey said something into the microphone which nobody could hear, and played a record. She couldn’t hear it but she knew it was slow because the few people on the floor were touch-dancing.

  “Dance?” he said.

  She slid off the barstool.

  “Sure,” she said.

  There were two big speakers at opposite corners of the small dance floor and when they got onto the floor they could hear the music. It was slow. Pressed against him, she felt the tension building in her. She could feel the thick slabs of his muscles. Muscles where she didn’t know people had muscles. They danced two numbers, his huge hand low on her back, pressing her steadily in against him.

  “You’re free until tomorrow afternoon,” he said as the second record stopped playing, and the DJ began his chatter while he cued a new record.

  “As a bird,” she said.

  “You wanna go someplace?” he said.

  “And do what?” she said, looking upward at him as seductively as she knew how. She had practiced that in the mirror at home.

  “We could get naked,” he said.

  She giggled and thought about seeing that body without clothes on. It was a little frightening and a little enticing and she was interested in a way she didn’t understand but which was not merely sexual. She giggled again.

  “Yes,” she said. “Let’s go someplace and get naked.”

  Chapter 42

  ANTHONY DEANGELO HAD NEVER seen a murdered person before. He’d seen a couple of people killed in car accidents, and he’d even done mouth-to-mouth on a guy who was having a heart attack and died while DeAngelo was working on him. But the naked woman in the junior high school parking lot was his first murder victim. There were bruises on her face, and her head was turned at an awkward angle.

  Someone had written SLUT in what looked like lipstick across her stomach. DeAngelo tried to look at her calmly as he called in on his radio. He didn’t want the kids being herded past the scene by teachers to think he was frightened by it. But he was. This wasn’t accidental death. This stiffening corpse lying naked in the dull mist, on the damp asphalt in the early morning, had died violently during the night at the hands of a terrible person. He didn’t know exactly what he should do, standing there talking into his radio. He wanted to cover the poor woman, but he didn’t think he ought to disturb the crime scene. Rain wasn’t heavy. Probably didn’t bother her anyway. He wished Jesse would hurry up and get there.

  In the school the kids were crowded at the windows despite the best efforts of the teachers. The school bus driver who had spotted the body first was standing beside DeAngelo’s cruiser. She looked for people to talk to, to tell about what she had seen and how she was the first to see it, and oh God, the poor woman! But DeAngelo was still on the radio and the junior high school staff was fruitlessly busy trying to protect the kids from seeing the corpse. He felt better when Jesse pulled up in the unmarked black Ford with the buggy whip antenna on the back bumper swaying in decreasing arcs as the car stopped and Jesse got out.

  “Anthony,” Jesse said.

  He walked over and looked down at the body.

  “ ‘Slut,’ ” he said.

  “Yeah. Like the car. Like the cat,” DeAngelo said.

  Jesse nodded, still looking at her.

  “Clothes?” he said.

  DeAngelo shook his head. “I haven’t seen any.”

  The town ambulance pulled into the parking lot and behind it Peter Perkins in his own car, a Mazda pickup. Two young Paradise firemen who doubled as EMTs got out and walked almost gingerly toward the crime scene. Peter Perkins got out of his truck. He was in jeans and a tee shirt with his gun strapped on and his badge on his belt. A thirty-five-millimeter camera hung around his neck. He went to the bed of his pickup and got his evidence kit. One of the EMTs knelt beside the body and felt for a pulse.

  After a moment he said, “She’s dead, Jesse.”

  “Un huh.”

  “What do you want us to do, Jesse?”

  The EMT was not quite twenty-five. His name was Duke Vincent. Jesse played softball with him in the Paradise town league. Like DeAngelo, Vincent had seen death. But never murder. Vincent’s voice was calm but soft, and Jesse knew he was feeling shaky. Jesse remembered the first time he’d seen it. It was a lot worse than this, a shotgun, close up, he remembered.

  “You think her neck’s broken, Dukie?” Jesse said.

  Vincent looked at the corpse again. Jesse knew he didn’t like it.

  “I guess so,” Vincent said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Jesse said. “Probably what killed her. You and Steve stand by with the ambulance for a while. We’ll have the county M.E. look at her, and there’ll be some state investigators along.”

  “Why did he write ‘slut’ on her, Jesse?” DeAngelo said.

  “Maybe the word means something special to him.” Jesse said.

  “So is it the same guy that did the car and Captain Cat?”

  “Might be,” Jesse said.

  “But wouldn’t he know that it would connect him to the other crimes?”

  Jesse smiled to himself at the TV locution his own officer was speaking in the presence of a murdered person. There were so many cop shows. It was hard for real cops not to start talking like them.

  “Might want us to see the connection,” Jesse said. “Or it might be someone else who wants us to think there’s a connection.”

  Most of the rest of the force had showed up, some in uniform, some dressed for off duty. For all of them it was their first murder and they stood by a little uneasily watching Jesse, except for Peter Perkins, who had stretched his crime-scene tape around the murder scene, and was now taking pictures. The other cops looked as if they envied him having something to do.

  “John,” Jesse said. “You and Arthur put up some horses and keep people behind them.”

  “There’s nobody around, Jesse.”

  “There will be,” Jesse said. “Suitcase, you talk to the bus driver. Get everything she saw, thinks, hopes, dreams, whatever. Let her talk, pay attention. Ed, go in, talk to the principal. We’re going to have to talk with the kids, maybe we can do it class by class, find out if they saw anything. We also may have to search the school.”

  “For what?” Burke said.

  “Her clothes,” Jesse said. “I’d like to find her clothes.”

  “Maybe he killed her someplace else and brought her body here nude,” Burke said.

  “We find the clothes, it’ll help us decide that,” Jesse said. “The rest of you spread around and look for her clothes or anything else. Tire tracks, bloodstains. He whacked her around pretty good. But there’s no blood on the pavement.”

  “Rain might have washed it,” DeAngelo said.

  “Watch where you walk, go in wider and wider circles around the body. Maybe he hit her with something. See if you see anything. Anthony, start knocking on doors, see if anybody lives around here heard anything, or saw a car come into the school parking lot during the night.”

  The cops did as they were told. They were happy to be given direction, happy to do something but stand and look at the battered body.

  “Dukie,” Jesse said. “You can cover her. And pull the ambulance up so it screens her from the school. Doesn’t do the kids much good to look out at her all morning.”

  Behin
d him in the parking lot, parents had begun to arrive. Already they had heard of a murder at the junior high school. Already they were there to see about their children. Jesse knew he’d have to talk with them. He knew a number of them would want to take their children home. He would like to have kept all the kids here until they had been questioned, but he knew he couldn’t and knew that trying to would accomplish nothing beyond his own aggravation.

  Other people were gathering too. Not parents. Just people from the town, who, as the word spread, began to gather silently as close to the scene as they could. He saw Hasty Hathaway moving importantly through the gathering crowd with a plastic rain guard over his snap-brimmed hat. Probably wearing rubbers too, Jesse thought. Jo Jo Genest was there, hatless, in a crinkle finish trench coat. Jesse’s glance paused on Jo Jo. Jo Jo returned it and smiled. Jesse’s glance lingered a thoughtful moment and then moved on. He looked for Abby, but didn’t see her. Past the silent crowd Jesse saw the medical examiner’s car arriving, and behind it an unmarked state car. That would be the homicide guy.

  Hathaway cleared the crowd and spoke to John DeLong guarding the barriers, and came on past him toward Jesse. I was right, Jesse thought. He’s wearing rubbers.

  Chapter 43

  JESSE SAT IN HIS OFFICE at midnight with a state police captain named Healy, sipping a single-malt scotch from a water glass. Healy had taken the bottle from his briefcase when he came in and set it on Jesse’s desk. The green-shaded desk lamp was the only light in the room. Outside the rain continued to mist down, too light for a drizzle, too heavy for a fog. The day’s dampness seemed to have incorporated the dampness of the shore and the scent of seawater was strong even though they were a half a mile from the harbor. Except for the voices and the occasional creak of a chair when one of them shifted in it, the silence in the office and outside had the kind of weight that existed only in the middle of the night in a small town. Healy was about Jesse’s size but older, and a little thinner. His short hair was gray. He had on a gray suit, and a blue oxford shirt, and a red and blue striped tie. His black shoe’s were still polished this late in the day.