Stranger in Paradise js-7

by Robert B. Parker

  “Where are they from?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Jesse said.

  “Any leads?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Any suspects?” Jenn said.

  “Not yet.”

  “Can we do a stand-up on camera?” Jenn said.

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, poo, Jesse,” Jenn said. “Why not?”

  “I don’t ever recall getting in trouble by not talking,” Jesse said. “Especially on camera.”

  She smiled.

  “What about my career,” she said.

  Jesse sucked in his cheeks a little and did a bad impression of Clark Gable.

  “Frankly, my dear,” Jesse said, “I don’t give a damn.”

  “I know,” Jenn said.

  They were quiet. Jesse was always puzzled by the fact that despite all her talkative charm and bubble, Jenn never revealed much of what she was thinking…. No, Jesse thought, of what she was feeling.

  “You know,” Jesse said. “That’s not true. I went for the easy joke. But it’s not true.”

  “You do give a damn about my career?” she said.

  “Yes,” Jesse said. “There’s self-interest in it. But if we are ever going to make it together, you have to be fully you.”

  “What did you say?”

  “We can’t…” He couldn’t think exactly how to say it. “You can’t care enough about me until you can care enough about you.”

  She stared at him in silence for what seemed to him a long time.

  Finally she said, “I…I don’t…I am very happy that you know that.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “Give Dix the credit.”

  Jenn smiled.

  “I already did,” she said. “Is there anything off the record that you can tell me.”

  “Aha,” Jesse said. “Putting it to the test already.”

  Jenn smiled again, and inclined her head.

  “Well,” she said. “Is there?”

  “A lot,” Jesse said.

  Jenn took out a notebook, as Jesse started to talk.

  When he was through she said, “So what’s the connection between Crow and the Francisco family, and the Crowne estate?’

  “I don’t know,” Jesse said.

  “But you think there is one?”

  “Give me something to investigate,” Jesse said.

  “What if it’s a false lead?” Jenn said.

  “Maybe I’ll come across the real one in the process,” Jesse said.

  “Better than doing nothing?”

  “The daughter, Amber, has a boyfriend who’s a Hispanic gangster in Marshport,” Jesse said. “The Crowne estate is a place where small Hispanic children are bused in from Marshport, despite local opposition. Amber’s mother’s body is found on the front lawn of the Crowne estate.”

  “Could be coincidence,” Jenn said.

  “Could be,” Jesse said.

  “But if I were on the story,” Jenn said, “and I didn’t follow up on the possible connection, they’d fire me.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “What I don’t get,” Jenn said, “is Crow.”

  “Nobody entirely gets Crow,” Jesse said.

  “But if he doesn’t want to kill the woman and return the girl, why doesn’t he just go away?” Jenn said. “It’s not like he hasn’t done worse.”

  “Says he likes women.”

  Jenn nodded.

  “You believe him?”

  “He let those hostages off the boat ten years ago,” Jesse said.

  “And kept the money,” Jenn said.

  “Which he didn’t have to split with anybody,” Jesse said.

  “So maybe it’s just something he tells you,” Jenn said. “That he likes women.”

  “Or tells himself,” Jesse said.

  “Or maybe it’s true,” Jenn said.

  Jesse nodded.

  “Or maybe it’s true,” he said.

  36.

  Crow had a bottle of champagne under his arm when he knocked on Marcy Campbell’s door at 5:45 in the evening. When she answered the door, he held out the champagne.

  “I thought we might want to drink this,” Crow said, “and sort of close the circle.”

  “The one that opened with me tied up on the couch in my office?” Marcy said. “Some years ago?”

  “Yep.”

  “What if I decline?”

  “You keep the champagne, I go my way,” Crow said.

  “Well,” Marcy said. “I decline.”

  “Enjoy the champagne,” Crow said, and turned and walked toward the street.

  Marcy stood in the doorway watching him. He reached her front gate and opened it when she said, “No.”

  Crow turned.

  “No?”

  “Don’t go,” Marcy said.

  Crow nodded and let the gate swing shut and walked back.

  “I just got home,” Marcy said. “I need to take a shower.”

  “Sure,” Crow said.

  While she was gone, Crow found the kitchen and improvised an ice bucket out of a mixing bowl. He popped the cork on the champagne, poured some into a wineglass, put the rest of the bottle on ice, and took it to the living room. He sat and sipped the champagne he’d poured and looked at the room. Colonial American antiques, braided rugs, pine paneling, pictures of sailboats. Very New England. He finished his champagne as Marcy appeared in the bedroom door wearing a white robe.

  “Want some champagne first?” Crow said.

  “No,” Marcy said.

  “Okay,” Crow said.

  He walked into the bedroom and took off his shirt. He was wearing a gun, which he took from the holster and placed on the bedside table. Then he took off the rest of his clothes. Marcy watched, standing by the bed.

  “What’s the scar from?” she said.

  Crow shook his head. Marcy nodded and shrugged out of the robe. They looked at each other for a moment, then Marcy went to him and kissed him and half fell backward onto the bed. Crow went with her, ending up on the side near the nightstand, where his gun was.

  Later they sat in the early-American living room, Crow with his clothes back on, Marcy in her white robe, and drank the champagne.

  “How’d you know,” Marcy said.

  “We know things,” Crow said.

  “We?”

  “Apache warriors,” Crow said.

  “Are you really an Apache?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you knew I wanted this,” she said.

  “Yes,” Crow said, and smiled. “And if I was wrong, what’d I lose?”

  “A hundred-dollar bottle of champagne,” Marcy said.

  “Three hundred,” Crow said.

  Marcy smiled.

  “So maybe all that Apache warrior stuff is crap,” she said.

  “Maybe,” Crow said.

  “But maybe not?” Marcy said.

  “You’d like it to be real,” Crow said. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Marcy said. “I would.”

  “It’s real to me,” Crow said.

  “I only ever wanted to do this once,” Marcy said.

  Crow nodded.

  “I’d rather it not happen again,” Marcy said.

  “Okay,” Crow said.

  “Don’t think it wasn’t wonderful,” Marcy said.

  “I don’t think that,” Crow said.

  “I had a fantasy and I fulfilled it.”

  “Sure,” Crow said.

  “You understand?” Marcy said.

  “Sure.”

  The champagne was gone. Crow looked at the empty bottle and stood.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  Marcy nodded. They walked to the door together. At the door Marcy put her arms around him and then kissed him hard.

  “Good-bye,” she said.

  “Good-bye,” Crow said, and walked out and closed the door.

  37.

  Miriam Fiedler invited Jesse for lunch at the Paradise Yacht Club. In honor of the occasi
on Jesse wore a blue blazer.

  “Well,” Miriam said when he joined her at a table on the veranda with a view across the harbor to the town. “You dressed up, I’m flattered.”

  “The blazer covers up my gun,” Jesse said.

  Miriam continued to smile brightly.

  “I love this view of the town,” she said, “don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Jesse said.

  A young waitress came to the table. Miriam ordered a Manhattan. Jesse had iced tea.

  “You don’t drink, Chief Stone?” Miriam said.

  “I do,” Jesse said. “But generally not at lunch.”

  “Oh, no one would even notice,” Miriam said. “All of the members have a drink at lunch.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “Well, I see that I have my work cut out for me,” Miriam said.

  “How so?” Jesse said.

  “You’re not much of a talker.”

  “As soon as I know the topic,” Jesse said, “I’ll jump right in.”

  “Why are you so sure there’s a topic?”

  “Last week you were rooting for my death,” Jesse said. “Now lunch. There’s a topic.”

  “Oh, Chief Stone,” Miriam said. “Of course there is. I don’t know why I pretended there wasn’t. May I call you Jesse. Everyone seems to.”

  “You may,” Jesse said.

  “Please call me Miriam.”

  “Okay,” Jesse said.

  “Because I’m passionate about the issue,” Miriam said. “I realize I’ve been far too strident in the matter of the Crowne estate, and I wish first to apologize.”

  “Good,” Jesse said.

  Miriam drank some of her Manhattan. Not like someone who needed it, Jesse noticed, merely like someone who liked it.

  “And I wondered if we could find a way to join forces, as it were, to confront a problem which is now a mutual one.”

  She wasn’t that bad-looking, Jesse thought. Probably fifty-something. Skin good. Slim, well-dressed, well-groomed, and her teeth were very white. She wore quite a bit of makeup and was quite artful with it. Jesse remembered how clever Jenn had been with makeup. He always paid attention to it in women.

  “What would that problem be?” Jesse said.

  “The murder,” Miriam said, her voice full of surprise. “Murder on the very front lawn of that lovely estate.”

  Jesse waited.

  “Well, surely you see the connection,” Miriam said. “Once that element penetrates a town, then inevitably the crime rate soars, and the fundamental value of a beautiful residential town simply disappears.”

  “Obviously,” Jesse said, “you’re not claiming that one of those preschool kids shot Fiona Francisco.”

  “No, no, of course not. But once it starts, like the tiny trickle that overwhelms the dike…it’s a tragedy,” she said.

  “Why do you think Fiona Francisco was killed by a Latino person?” Jesse said.

  “Well, she was there on the front lawn, and obviously she wasn’t killed by someone in Paradise.”

  “But you have no actual evidence,” Jesse said.

  “It’s as plain as the nose on your face,” she said.

  Jesse nodded thoughtfully.

  “That plain,” he said. “What do you think I should do?”

  “Well, first of all, close down that school. It will send them a message,” Miriam said.

  “I really have no right to close down a school,” Jesse said.

  “You have an obligation to protect us,” Miriam said.

  “I do,” Jesse said.

  He picked up the menu.

  “What’s good here,” Jesse said.

  Miriam stared at him.

  “I’m not through talking,” she said.

  “I’m not surprised,” Jesse said.

  “Well, what are you going to do about this?”

  Jesse put down the menu.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do,” Jesse said. “I’m not going to sit here and talk ragtime with you. You have your reasons for wanting that school closed. But we both know they have little to do with the murder of Fiona Francisco.”

  “That’s insulting,” Miriam said.

  “Yeah, I thought it might be,” Jesse said. “Thanks for the iced tea.”

  He stood and walked through the open French doors, through the dining room, and out of the Yacht Club.

  38.

  Jesse stood with Jenn and Nina Pinero at the foot of the long, sloping lawn of the Crowne estate. At the top of the slope the children sat on the floor of the big front porch while one of the two teachers read them a book.

  “Kids know about the murder?” Jesse said.

  “Vaguely,” Nina said.

  “Press?” Jesse said.

  “We’ve been able to keep them away pretty well.” She looked at Jenn. “Until now.”

  “I’m Jenn Stone,” Jenn said, “Channel Three News.”

  “Stone?” Nina said. “Any relation?”

  “We used to be married,” Jesse said.

  “Does that give her special status?” Nina said.

  “Yes,” Jesse said. “It does.”

  “I won’t bother the children,” Jenn said. “I’m just gathering background for a larger story I’m working on.”

  “Didn’t you used to do weather?” Nina said.

  Jenn grinned at her.

  “Sure did. Want some information on cold fronts and high-pressure systems?”

  Nina smiled.

  “No,” she said. “I very much don’t.”

  “No one seems to,” Jenn said. “Except program directors and station managers.”

  “I would prefer you not talk to the children,” Nina said.

  “No need,” Jenn said. “I have a lot of film from the first day they arrived.”

  “Nina,” Jesse said. “Do I recall you saying that one of these Crowne estate kids had a brother in the Horn Street Boys?”

  Nina looked at Jenn.

  “This conversation is off the record,” Nina said.

  “Of course,” Jenn said.

  “Yes,” Nina said to Jesse, “there’s a brother.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “The Horn Street Boys have a connection to the victim,” Jesse said, “and a connection to the school. And the victim was found on school grounds.”

  “You think the Horn Street Boys are involved?”

  “I only know what I told you,” Jesse said. “I don’t even have a theory yet.”

  “I won’t give you a name,” Nina said. “I shouldn’t have even mentioned the brother.”

  “Why?” Jenn said.

  “Improving life for these kids is so fragile a proposition,” she said. “Anything can ruin us.”

  “Like having the head person in this program rat one of their brothers to the cops,” Jesse said.

  “Just like that,” Nina said.

  “But since you know of the relationship, the two boys must have some regular contact,” Jesse said.

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s possible,” Jesse said, “that the Horn Street Boys know abut the Crowne estate project and maybe even about the local opposition.”

  “Yes.”

  “You think they were making a statement?” Jenn said.

  “I have no idea,” Nina said.

  “We’re not the enemy,” Jenn said. “We’re just trying to help.”

  “That may be true,” Nina said. “But what I said is also true. I don’t know anything more about the Horn Street Boys than what I’ve told you.”

  Jesse said, “Thank you, Nina,” and turned and walked toward his car. Jenn lingered a moment, and then said, “Thank you,” and followed Jesse.

  “That wasn’t very productive,” Jenn said, as they drove back across the causeway.

  “I had to confirm what was a very passing remark, make sure I heard it right, so I’m not wasting time with a theory that isn’t so.”

 
“Meticulous,” Jenn said.

  “It’s mostly what the work is about,” Jesse said. “Keeping track of stuff.”

  “I wonder why people like Nina are so hostile to the media,” Jenn said.

  “You and Nina have different goals,” Jesse said. “Even in the best case, you are trying to get at the truth. She is trying to salvage a few kids.”

  “Are the two incompatible?” Jenn said.

  “Sometimes, yes,” Jesse said. “Sometimes, no. People like Nina are intensely aware of the incompatible possibility.”

  “You said ‘best case.’ What’s a worse case?”

  “That your goal is not truth but advertising revenue,” Jesse said.

  Jenn smiled.

  “Oh,” she said. “That.”

  39.

  They were sitting on a bench by the marina five blocks from Horn Street, looking at the boats, sharing a can of Pepsi and a joint.

  “You know how to get to Florida?” Esteban said.

  “Florida?” Amber said.

  “I’m supposed to take you to Florida,” Esteban said. “And I don’t know where it is.”

  “What do you mean?” Amber said.

  “Your old man’s giving me ten thousand dollars to bring you down.”

  “I don’t want to go to Florida.”

  “It’s ten thousand dollars, baby,” Esteban said.

  “You gonna sell me to my father?” she said.

  “No, no. I just bring you down, turn you over, he gives me the ten grand. I wait around a couple days. You run away and we come back up here. How long’s it take to get to Florida?”

  “I won’t go,” she said.

  “Yeah, baby, you will,” Esteban said. “Up front beside me, or in the trunk, either way you gonna go. Ten thousand dollars’s a lot of money.”

  She looked at him in silence for a moment. Then she began to cry.

  “Hey,” Esteban said. “Hey, hey. This is for us, baby. You spend a couple fucking days with the old man, and we’re outta there with the money.”

  Amber stood and ran. Esteban went after her, out along Marshport Way along the water. A hundred yards up from the marina was a red light. A half-painted, half-primed pickup truck that might once have been blue was stopped at the light. The back was full of loose copper pipe. Amber reached it as the light turned green and as the car started to move Amber stepped up onto the running board and hooked her arm through the window.