Stranger in Paradise js-7

by Robert B. Parker

  “We have to be able to demonstrate this man’s involvement,” Molly said.

  “Well, I’m not going to do your job for you,” Mrs. Snowdon said. “What kind of job is this for a young woman? Why aren’t you making a home for a husband and children?”

  “I do that, too,” Molly said.

  She and Mrs. Snowdon stared at each other silently. Molly looked at Suit. Suit shrugged.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about him,” Molly said. “He doesn’t appear to have any interest in anyone from his last visit.”

  Mrs. Snowdon sat rigidly and said nothing. Molly let out some breath and stood.

  “Thanks for your time,” she said. “We can find our way out.”

  Mrs. Snowdon didn’t speak, and they left her there, sitting in her iron silence.

  4.

  Jesse took Marcy Campbell to supper at the Gray Gull. It was June. They sat outside on the deck next to the harbor. It was still light and there was still activity in the harbor.

  “Things not working well with your ex-wife?” Marcy said.

  Marcy had platinum hair and wore skillful makeup. She was older than Jesse but still good-looking, and clearly sexual. Jesse knew that from experience. But he had also known it before he had the experience. Jesse always wondered how he could tell. He never did quite know, only that there were women who were insistently aware of their bodies, and of their sex. And somehow by posture or magic they communicated that awareness as insistently as they felt it. Marcy was the gold standard for such women.

  “You think I only show up when there’s a problem with Jenn?”

  “Yes,” Marcy said, and grinned at him. “Fortunately for me, it happens enough so that I see you a lot.”

  “Course of true love,” Jesse said, “never did run smooth.”

  “You and me? Or you and Jenn?”

  “True love? Both.”

  “Wouldn’t it be pretty to think so?” Marcy said.

  “I love you, Marce, you know that.”

  “Like a sister,” Marcy said.

  “Not quite like a sister,” Jesse said.

  “No,” Marcy said, “you’re right. Not like a sister.”

  The waitress brought Marcy some white wine and Jesse an iced tea. Marcy looked at the tea.

  “Off the booze again?”

  “Got no plan,” Jesse said. “Tonight I thought iced tea would be nice.”

  “Got any other plans for the night?” Marcy said.

  “Let’s see what develops,” Jesse said.

  “Let’s.”

  They read their menus, Marcy got a second wine, Jesse got a second iced tea. The waitress took their food order and headed for the kitchen. The shipyard next to the Gray Gull was silent now, and in the harbor the last of the evening boats were coming back through the gathering evening.

  “Of course you remember the events on Stiles Island ten years ago,” Jesse said.

  Marcy seemed to immobilize for a moment like a freeze-frame in a movie.

  Then she said, “When I was tied up and gagged and threatened with death by a bunch of cutthroats? Those events?”

  “You do remember,” Jesse said.

  Marcy nodded.

  “I wish I didn’t,” she said. “Forced to think about it, I also remember that you came and saved me.”

  Jesse nodded. The waitress returned with their salads. They didn’t speak while she set them down and left.

  “You remember one of them? An Indian? A man named Crow?” Jesse said.

  Marcy again had a freeze-frame moment. It lasted longer than the first one had.

  “My protector,” she said.

  “He’s passed the statute of limitations,” Jesse said. “But if I can get a witness or two to say he was involved in a felony that resulted in homicide, even if he didn’t do the killing, I can get around the statute.”

  She shook her head.

  “You won’t be a witness?”

  “No.”

  “Your protector?”

  “Yes,” Marcy said. “Stockholm syndrome, gratitude, call it what you will. I was lying on my back with my hands and feet tied and my mouth taped. There were five bad men in the room involved in a crime that would send them all to jail forever if they got caught.”

  Jesse nodded. “So they had nothing much to lose,” he said.

  “Nothing,” Marcy said. “I was helpless, and they were free to do anything they wanted to with me. I couldn’t resist. I couldn’t even speak. About all I could do was wiggle. Can you even imagine what that is like?”

  “No,” Jesse said.

  “That’s right,” Marcy said. “You can’t. I wish I couldn’t. I wish I could forget it.”

  “But they didn’t touch you,” Jesse said.

  “No, because they knew that they’d have to deal with Crow, and they were afraid of him. Even Harry Smith.”

  “Macklin,” Jesse said.

  “I know. He was Harry Smith to me.”

  “If he’d needed to,” Jesse said, “Crow would have swatted you like a fly.”

  “No,” Marcy said. “I can’t bear to think about it if I don’t think of him protecting me.”

  Jesse started to speak and stopped. He put his hand out and patted her hand.

  “Okay,” Jesse said. “You came out of it okay, and that was because of Crow.”

  “And you.”

  “Me later, maybe,” Jesse said.

  They ate their salads quietly. The waitress cleared their plates and brought the entrées. Marcy sat looking across the table at Jesse. She was tapping her fingertips together near her chin.

  “He came to see me,” Marcy said. “Two days ago.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “He threaten you?”

  “No,” Marcy said. “He was pleasant. Asked if I was okay. Said he had some business in town, and thought he’d check on me.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I believe what I need to believe,” Marcy said. “If I stop thinking of him the way I do, I can’t stand to live with the memory. I can’t be Marcy. Can you understand that?”

  “Yes,” Jesse said. “I can.”

  5.

  Molly sat with Jesse in his office.

  “Nobody on Stiles Island will say anything about Mr. Cromartie,” she said.

  “Neither will Marcy Campbell,” Jesse said.

  “Even though you questioned her all night?” Molly said.

  Jesse raised his eyebrows at her.

  “I’m a law officer,” Molly said. “I have my sources.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “She feels he saved her life,” Jesse said.

  “All the hostages do,” Molly said.

  “All women,” Jesse said.

  “I told you he’s a hunk,” Molly said.

  “Maybe they’re right,” Jesse said.

  “That he did save their lives?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe they are,” Molly said. “Still, a lot of people got killed, including two of us.”

  “And the only thing I saw him do was rescue the women,” Jesse said.

  “The other people,” Molly said, “people in the bank, homeowners, other businesspeople, they won’t even say he was there. They’re scared, afraid to re-involve with him.”

  “Don’t blame them,” Jesse said.

  “So, we got no case.”

  “No,” Jesse said. “I talked to Healy. No warrants out on him. I talked to my guy Travis, in Tucson. Nothing. Crow doesn’t seem to have been detected in a criminal act since he left here.”

  “With enough money to retire,” Molly said.

  “So how come all of a sudden he’s out of retirement?” Jesse said.

  “Well, he isn’t, actually,” Molly said. “He hasn’t done anything but come here and say hello.”

  “So far,” Jesse said.

  Suitcase Simpson knocked on the doorframe and came into the office carrying a large foam cup of coffee.

  “How’s the crim
e situation at Dunkin’ Donuts?” Jesse said.

  “Under continuous surveillance,” Suit said. “I got a little news.”

  Jesse waited.

  “Wilson Cromartie just rented a place on Strawberry Cove,” he said. “You know who the broker was?”

  “Marcy Campbell,” Jesse said.

  Suit looked disappointed.

  “You knew that?” he said.

  “No, but what other broker would he know in town?”

  Molly smiled at Jesse.

  “She mention that to you last night, Jesse?” she said.

  “No.”

  “Odd,” Molly said.

  Jesse nodded.

  “You saw Marcy last night?” Suit said.

  “She won’t testify against Crow,” Jesse said.

  “Despite intensive interrogation,” Molly said.

  “Intensive,” Jesse said.

  Suit looked at both of them and decided to let it be.

  “So I figure he’s planning on staying awhile.”

  “Give us more time to bust him,” Jesse said.

  “If we can,” Molly said.

  “Sooner or later,” Jesse said.

  6.

  Jesse poured himself his first drink of the evening. The scotch whiskey looked silky as it slid over the ice. He added soda, waited for the bubbles to subside, then stirred the ice around with a fingertip. Jenn always used to say he should use a spoon, but he liked to stir it the way he did. He took a drink, felt it ease into him. He looked at his picture of Ozzie Smith on the wall over the bar. He wondered if Ozzie drank. Probably not, probably hard to do that backflip if you were a boozer. He raised his glass at the picture.

  “I made the show, I’d be doing backflips, too,” he said aloud.

  His voice sounded odd, as it always did, in the empty room. If he hadn’t hurt his shoulder he might have made the show. He sipped again. If he didn’t drink he might be with Jenn. If Jenn didn’t try to fuck her way to fulfillment. If he were smarter he’d have let Jenn go and taken up with Sunny Randall. If Sunny wasn’t preoccupied with her ex-husband. If…

  Jesse walked to the French doors that looked out over his little balcony to the harbor. He had no illusions about Crow. Whatever his reasons for letting the women go ten years ago, whatever his reasons for protecting Marcy, if he really had, Jesse knew that had he needed to, Crow would have killed them all.

  Jesse’s drink was gone. He walked back to the bar and filled his glass with ice. He poured the caramel-colored whiskey over the ice and added the soda. He stirred it, and walked back to the French doors.

  But Molly was sort of right. Jesse didn’t know if he and Crow were alike. But there was something about Crow that clicked in Jesse. Crow was so entirely Crow. He belonged so totally to who and what he was. Crow probably enjoyed a drink. Probably had no problem stopping after one or two. Probably didn’t get mad. Probably didn’t hate. Probably didn’t fear. Jesse took another drink and stared at the darkening harbor…. Probably didn’t love, either.

  “He’s not missing much,” Jesse said to no one.

  Even saying it, Jesse knew it wasn’t quite true. If he didn’t love Jenn, would he be happier? He wouldn’t be as unhappy. But was that the same? What would replace the sense of momentous adventure that he felt when he thought of her, which was nearly always?

  Jesse made another drink. The evening had settled and the harbor was dark. There was little to look at through the French doors. After he made his drink, Jesse stayed at the bar.

  In a sense, loving Jenn wasn’t even about Jenn. It was about who he was by being in love with her. So why not just let her do whatever she wanted to and love her anyway. What did he care how many men she banged? Let her go about her business and I go about mine and what difference does it make? He heard a low animal sound in the room. It was, he realized, him, and it had come without volition. He looked at his picture of Ozzie and shrugged. Okay, so it makes a difference. Was it more about him than about her? Did he hang in there because he would miss the high drama? He knew he loved her. He knew she loved him. He knew they couldn’t find a way to make it work.

  “Yet,” he said, and drank some more.

  7.

  Crow was at a corner table in Daisy’s, having an egg-white omelet with some fruit salsa, when Jesse came in and sat down at the table with him.

  “Care to join me?” Crow said.

  “Thanks,” Jesse said.

  Daisy brought him coffee.

  “You want some breakfast?” she said.

  Jesse shook his head. Daisy left the pot and swaggered away. Crow watched her.

  “Daisy Dyke,” he said.

  “That’s what she calls herself,” Jesse said.

  “Wonder why?” Crow said.

  Jesse smiled.

  “She was going to call the restaurant Daisy Dyke’s,” Jesse said, “but the selectmen wouldn’t let her.”

  “Nice she’s out of the closet,” Crow said.

  Jesse nodded and drank some coffee.

  “Can’t seem to put together a case against you,” Jesse said.

  “Can’t lick ’em, join ’em?” Crow said.

  Jesse shrugged.

  “Doesn’t mean I won’t put one together,” Jesse said.

  “You do,” Crow said, “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “First step is to find out what you’re doing here,” Jesse said.

  Crow nodded.

  “Be how I’d go at it,” Crow said.

  “You could tell me,” Jesse said. “Save us a lot of time.”

  Crow shook his head.

  “We’re going to stay on you,” Jesse said.

  “How many people you got?” Crow said.

  “Twelve,” Jesse said. “Plus Molly, who runs the desk, and me.”

  “Four to a shift,” Crow said, and smiled.

  “We can be annoying,” Jesse said.

  “I know that,” Crow said. “You were last time I visited.”

  “You’re staying awhile,” Jesse said.

  “Maybe.”

  Jesse poured himself more coffee. The two men looked at each other.

  “You know,” Crow said, “and I know, that you aren’t going to scare me off.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “I didn’t figure I would,” Jesse said. “But it was worth a try.”

  “I don’t think that’s why you came to see me,” Crow said.

  “Why did I?” Jesse said.

  “You’re just trying to get little sense of what I’m like.”

  “That why you came to see me, before?” Jesse said.

  “Yeah.”

  Jesse drank some coffee. Crow finished his omelet and carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  “So?” Jesse said after a time.

  “So you know I’m not going away,” Crow said. “And I know you’re not going away.”

  The tablecloth in front of Crow, Jesse noticed, was immaculate. No spills. No crumbs. It was as if no one had eaten there.

  “Yeah,” Jesse said. “That’s about right.”

  8.

  He was a smallish man with gray curly hair, pink skin, and a bow tie.

  “My name is Walter Carr,” he said. “I am a professor of urban studies at Taft University.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “This is Miriam Fiedler,” Carr said, “the executive director of the Westin Charitable Trust.”

  Jesse said, “How do you do.”

  Miriam Fiedler nodded. She was tall and lean and had horsey-looking teeth.

  “And perhaps you know this gentleman,” Carr said. “Austin Blake?”

  “We’ve not met,” Jesse said.

  “I’m an attorney,” Blake said. “I’m along as a sort of informal consultant.”

  “This is Molly Crane,” Jesse said, nodding at Molly, who sat in a straight chair to the right of his desk. Molly had a notebook in her lap.

  “We are here representing a group of neighbors,” Carr said, “in order to cal
l your attention to a problem.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “You are interested, Mr. Stone,” Miriam said, “I assume.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “As you may know,” Walter Carr said, “there is a plan being implemented to transform the former Crowne estate on Paradise Neck into an alternative school for disadvantaged students.”

  “Mostly Latino,” Jesse said. “From Marshport.”

  “Paradise Neck is very elite. The streets are very narrow. The ocean impinges on either side.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “There is no opportunity for expansion of the present roadways,” Carr said.

  “True,” Jesse said.

  Blake the lawyer had a deep tan and snow-white hair worn longish and combed straight back. He was sitting quietly with his legs crossed, observing. It was an approach Jesse admired. Ms. Fiedler was impatient.

  “For God’s sake, Walter, the point is simple. The neighborhood cannot support busloads of unruly children coming and going in so narrow a compass.”

  “How about ruly children?” Jesse said.

  Blake smiled faintly.

  “Excuse me?” Ms. Fiedler said.

  “Is it the number of buses?” Jesse said. “Or who’s in them.”

  “Those buses will represent a huge traffic problem,” Ms. Fiedler said.

  She looked at Molly, who was writing in her notebook.

  “What is she doing?” Ms. Fiedler said.

  “Her name is Officer Crane,” Jesse said.

  “Whatever it is, what is she doing.”

  Jesse smiled.

  “I don’t know,” Jesse said. “Molly, what are you doing?”

  “I’m a female,” she said. “I have a compulsion to sit near the boss and take notes.”

  “Notes?” Ms. Fiedler said. “This is an informal discussion. There’s nothing here for the record.”

  “What record is that?” Jesse said.

  “Don’t be smart,” she said. “I do not want any notes taken.”

  “Okay. But I’ll probably forget a bunch of stuff,” Jesse said, “without notes.”

  “I want to hear what she has written,” Ms. Fiedler said.

  “Miriam,” Blake said softly.

  “No, I insist,” Ms. Fiedler said. “What have you written, young woman?”