Stranger in Paradise js-7

by Robert B. Parker

  “You been talking to Crow?” Buddy Hall said.

  “Yes.”

  “How come he didn’t do what the Miami guy wanted?”

  “Crow says he likes women,” Jesse said. “And besides, he didn’t feel like it.”

  “You believe that?” Cox said.

  “I believe he didn’t do it,” Jesse said.

  “So how about the mother,” Cox said. “Did he kill her?”

  “Crow? I don’t think so. He says it was probably the gang kid, Esteban.”

  “That make any sense?” Peter Perkins said.

  “Esteban made a deal to turn her over to her father,” Jesse said. “Maybe he made a deal to kill the mother, too.”

  “Girl say that?”

  “Nope.”

  “Wouldn’t she rat out the guy that killed her mother?” Cox said.

  “She didn’t like her mother,” Jesse said.

  These were small-town guys, most of them not very old, Jesse knew, most of them very conventional. The idea that you wouldn’t like your mother was hard for them. No one said anything.

  “She doesn’t like her father, either,” Jesse said. “That’s why she ran away when she found out Esteban was going to take her down there.”

  “She come here?” Peter Perkins said.

  “Crow brought her in,” Jesse said.

  “Crow?” Cox said. “What is it with Crow?”

  Jesse shook his head.

  “What about this guy in Miami?” Paul Murphy said. “He a bad guy?”

  “Big player in the South Florida rackets,” Jesse said.

  “So who’s the dead guy?” Murphy said.

  “Now, it’s all theory,” Jesse said. “I figure that Francisco sent him up to kill Crow, and bring the girl home.”

  “You think he came alone?”

  “No one would send one guy after Crow,” Jesse said. “Besides, there’s no car. How did he get there?”

  “You think Crow shot him?”

  “Probably,” Jesse said.

  “And the other guys split,” Murphy said.

  “Yep.”

  “If Crow’s as good as everybody thinks he is,” Murphy said, “how come he didn’t get more than one?”

  Jesse was quiet for a moment, thinking about Crow.

  Then he said, “Maybe he didn’t want to.”

  “That’s crazy,” Peter Perkins said.

  “Crow’s not like other people,” Jesse said. “Suit, you go down to my house and stay with Molly and the kid. I’ll relieve you later. Everyone else, shotguns in every car, cleaned, loaded, no plastic daisies in the barrel. Extra ammo in every car, shotgun and handgun. Vests with you at all times.”

  “Jesus, Jesse,” Suit said. “It sounds like you’re expecting a war.”

  “Always possible,” Jesse said.

  49.

  Jesse sat with Jenn on the balcony outside his living room and looked at the harbor as it got dark. Amber was standing in the doorway drinking coffee. She had on tan shorts and a powder-blue T-shirt and too much makeup, but she was, Jesse thought, beginning to look a little less like a punk cliché.

  “Have you done any research on the Crowne estate?” Jesse said.

  He was sipping scotch. Jenn had a glass of Riesling.

  “You mean the estate itself?” Jenn said.

  “Yeah.”

  “No, you think I should?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because?”

  “Because you can and I don’t have the resources,” Jesse said.

  “Why do you think it needs to be researched?” Jenn said.

  “I think Miriam Fiedler’s interest in the issue is too large,” Jesse said.

  “Explain,” Jenn said.

  “Suit says she’s asking questions about me, and the department, and the murder, and can I be bribed.”

  “Suit?” Amber said. “The guy that was here with me and Molly?”

  “Yes,” Jesse said.

  “Why would Miriam Fiedler be asking Suit questions?” Jenn said.

  Jesse smiled. Jenn looked at him.

  “Why?” Jenn said.

  “Remember what I told you about Cissy Hathaway?” Jesse said. “Suit likes older women.”

  “Suit and Miriam Fiedler?” Jenn said.

  “Suit’s fucking somebody?” Amber said from the doorway.

  “Well put,” Jesse said.

  “So maybe this Miriam Fiddler or whatever is fucking him so he’ll tell her stuff,” Amber said.

  “Maybe,” Jesse said.

  “So,” Amber said, “big deal. It happens all the time.”

  “You think?” Jesse said.

  “How else do you get anything?” Amber said.

  “Sometimes women have sex with men because they like them,” Jenn said. “Even sometimes because they love them.”

  “Yeah, you bet,” Amber said. “You like him?”

  She nodded at Jesse.

  “Yes,” Jenn said. “I probably love him.”

  “So how come you don’t fuck him?”

  “Right now it doesn’t seem like a good idea,” Jenn said.

  “So you like him, but you won’t fuck him. And you love him but you’re divorced.”

  “That’s about right,” Jenn said.

  “You ever fuck some guy to get what you want?” Amber said.

  “Yes,” Jenn said.

  “See?” Amber said. “No big deal.”

  “It is a big deal,” Jenn said. “Because every time you do it you feel weak and worthless.”

  “Maybe you do,” Amber said. “Not me.”

  “You will,” Jenn said. “It’s cumulative.”

  “Huh?”

  “The more of it you do,” Jenn said, “the more you feel bad.”

  “I like it,” Amber said. “When I’m balling a guy, I’m in charge, you know?”

  “Like Esteban,” Jesse said.

  Amber didn’t say anything for a moment. Then her eyes filled, and she turned and went through the living room to her bedroom.

  “You hurt her feelings,” Jenn said.

  “Esteban hurt her feelings,” Jesse said.

  “And you reminded her of it.”

  “She can’t be lying to herself,” Jesse said. “How is that good for her?”

  “Maybe she has so little else,” Jenn said. “You ever see The Ice Man Cometh?”

  “No.”

  Jenn shrugged.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said.

  “My parenting skills are limited,” Jesse said. “But I’m pretty sure the truth is good.”

  “Maybe it’s not always,” Jenn said.

  “Maybe it isn’t,” Jesse said. “But I’m not too sure about lying, either.”

  “I know.”

  They were silent. Jesse sipped his scotch. Jenn stared out at the harbor, where the darkness had thickened enough so that the lights on some of the yachts were showing.

  “I can check the legal stuff about the Crowne estate,” Jenn said. “Deed, title, whatever. Hell, I can probably get an intern to do that.”

  “Might be useful,” Jesse said.

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” Jenn said. “Now I’m going in to the bedroom and pat Amber on the shoulder for a little bit.”

  “Maternal impulse?” Jesse said.

  “Damned if I know,” Jenn said, and went inside.

  Jesse put his feet up on the railing and looked at the harbor. Across it the lights were going on in houses along Paradise Neck. Suppers were being cooked. Spouses were having a cocktail together while it cooked. Jesse looked at his moisture-beaded glass. He liked the look of it with the dark gold booze and the translucent silver ice. Still half-full. And he could have another if he wished. Two drinks was reasonable. And after the two drinks, he and Jenn and maybe Amber would have supper in a not distasteful caricature of the lives being lived across the harbor.

  I wonder how much Crow drinks, Jesse thought.

  50.

  “It was Crow,
” Francisco said on the phone.

  “I didn’t see him,” Romero said.

  “It was Crow,” Francisco said. “Forget about him. Get Amber and bring her home.”

  “He killed Larson,” Romero said.

  “There’s a million other Larsons,” Francisco said. “Bring the kid home.”

  “I don’t like having some guy shoot one of my people and walk away,” Romero said.

  “I don’t give a fuck what you like. Farm Crow out to the local gangbangers. Bring the kid home now.”

  “How much to the gangbangers?” Romero said.

  “Ten, same as if they brought the kid home.”

  “Ten?” Romero said. “To kill Crow?”

  “That’s more money than they can even count,” Francisco said. “How many are there?”

  “Maybe a dozen,” Romero said.

  “So if Crow kills a few, no sweat,” Francisco said. “Still plenty left to do the job.”

  “Ten grand,” Romero said.

  “And they’ll be happy to get it,” Francisco said. “Turn Crow over to them. Bring the kid home. We got a lot of business to do down here.”

  “Okay, Lou,” Romero said.

  The phone went dead. Romero folded his cell phone and slid it back in his pants pocket. He looked at the other two men, Bobby Chacon and a guy named Mongo Estella, for whom Bobby had to translate.

  “We give the Crow hit to Esteban,” Romero said to Bobby. “And bring the girl home.”

  “We know where the girl is?” Bobby said.

  “No,” Romero said.

  Bobby nodded and spoke to Mongo in Spanish. Romero started the Escalade.

  “First thing,” Romero said, “we make the deal with Esteban and his people.”

  “You think they good enough?” Bobby said.

  “No. But they are maybe crazy enough. Crazy might work better than good, with Crow.”

  Bobby nodded.

  Driving carefully behind them, Crow was cautious. They would be looking for him now. But the Escalade was big and uncommon on the streets of Marshport, and Crow stayed with them easily enough. He was driving a grayish-beige Toyota, of which there were usually three or four in sight at all times. At Horn Street, the Escalade parked. Two of the men got out and walked down the alley. Crow turned right and then left and parked on a parallel street where he could see the Escalade through a parking lot. In ten minutes the two men came out onto Horn Street and got into the Escalade and drove east. Crow drove parallel for a couple of blocks and then swung up onto the same street several cars behind them. He followed them for a while and then turned off left, took the next right, followed them in a rough parallel course until he passed them and turned back to their street, coming out ahead of them. He drove ahead of them, watching them in the mirror until they turned off. Then he U-turned and fell in behind them on the road to Paradise.

  The Escalade parked on Sewall Street, near the house where Fiona Francisco had lived. Crow parked up on Washington Street where he could see them. The same two men got out and went to the house. The front door was locked. There was a lot of foot traffic. After a moment the two men walked around the house and Crow couldn’t see them. He waited. After about fifteen minutes the two men came back and got into the Escalade. The big car drove down Sewall Street and parked on the wharf outside the Gray Gull. All three men got out and went into the restaurant. Crow drove in and parked at the far end of the wharf.

  Crow sat and looked at the restaurant, and in a short while the three men appeared on the outside deck and sat at a table. Crow sank a little lower in the front seat of his car so that he could just see through the steering wheel. They had a drink. They read the menus. Crow studied them. Why had they gone to the house? Were they looking for him? No. They wouldn’t look for him there. They were looking for the girl. If they found her, they’d take her straight to Miami. So who was going to kill him? Francisco would not let it slide. It wasn’t how he worked. No one was allowed to cross him.

  Crow sat in his car and watched the men drink and eat on the deck. He could probably step out of the car and kill all three of them…too easy. Crow wanted the war to evolve a little. Such a good opportunity, though. He got out and walked between the parked cars to the near edge of the wharf. Across about ten feet of harbor water he fired one shot and hit Mongo in the back of the head. Mongo pitched forward onto the table. The tableware scattered. Romero and Bobby Chacon hit the floor behind the table, fumbling for weapons as they went down. By the time they got them out and squirmed into a position to see, Crow was gone.

  51.

  “Another guy from Miami,” Suit said.

  He handed Mongo’s driver’s license to Jesse.

  “Carrying a forty-caliber semiautomatic,” Suit said. “Full magazine. Got a room key, too. Marshport Lodge.”

  “Molly,” Jesse said. “Get the Marshport cops. Give them the room-key info, see what they can find.”

  “Armed and dangerous?” Molly said.

  “You might mention that,” Jesse said.

  Molly went to one of the cruisers.

  “Witnesses?” Jesse said to Suit.

  “Lot of them,” Suit said. “Nobody knows what happened. Three guys came in, sat down, ordered lunch. They’re eating lunch, there’s a shot. Nobody knows from where. Nobody saw the shooter. The other two guys hit the floor, they have guns. After a minute they get up and run from the restaurant.”

  “Car?” Jesse said.

  “Nobody dared look,” Suit said.

  Jesse stood looking down at Mongo’s body sprawled across the table.

  “Shot had to come from the wharf,” Jesse said. “No place else a guy could stand and hit him in the back of the head.”

  “Unless it was another long rifle shot,” Suit said.

  “Most people on a long shot don’t aim for the head,” Jesse said.

  “Unless it was a lousy shot that worked out,” Suit said.

  “ME will tell us what kind of bullet,” Jesse said. “Meanwhile, I’m sticking with the wharf.”

  Suit nodded. Jesse went out the restaurant and across the little gangway to the wharf and walked over so he was standing where he figured the shooter had stood. Suit walked with him.

  “You think it was Crow?” Suit said.

  “Yes.”

  “Can we prove it?”

  “Not yet,” Jesse said.

  Suit was silent. They both looked at the corpse on the deck. It was an easy shot.

  “You told me Crow could really shoot,” Suit said.

  “He’s as good as I am,” Jesse said.

  “Wow!” Suit said.

  Jesse smiled slightly.

  “Right answer,” he said.

  “So a good shot,” Suit said. “Standing here. Probably using a semiautomatic with ten, fifteen rounds in it. Why didn’t he kill them all?”

  “I don’t know,” Jesse said.

  They stood again in silence, looking at the crime scene. The ME’s truck had arrived. Peter Perkins had finished taking his pictures and was packing up his equipment. Arthur Angstrom was keeping the sightseers at bay behind some yellow tape. Molly and Eddie Cox were still talking to a huddle of restaurant workers and patrons and learning nothing.

  “It wouldn’t be conscience,” Suit said.

  Jesse smiled.

  “No,” he said. “It wouldn’t be conscience.”

  52.

  Marshport police headquarters was in a nineteenth-century brick and brownstone building with an arched entranceway that looked like it might be a library, or a school. Jesse sat in the basement in a blank interrogation room with yellow walls, with a Marshport detective named Concannon, and an Essex County assistant DA named Tremaine. Concannon was a big, hard-looking man with black curly hair and a handlebar mustache. There was a small white scar across the bridge of his nose. Tremaine had short, thick hair with blond highlights, and big, round tinted glasses. Jesse thought her legs were good.

  With them was Bobby Chacon.

/>   “We got him with an unlicensed handgun,” Concannon said.

  “And we called Florida,” Tremaine said, “and, to our amazement, we find that Bobby has two previous convictions.”

  “So this would make strike three,” Jesse said.

  “If it were a violent felony,” Chacon said.

  Nobody said anything.

  “It’s a simple gun possession,” Chacon said. “Throw the book at me, I get maybe a year.”

  “It could be more serious,” Tremaine said.

  “Yeah? How?”

  “We might find a way to up the stakes a little,” Concannon said.

  “I heard he actually fired at you when you were attempting to place him under arrest,” Jesse said.

  Concannon nodded.

  “That would crank everything up some,” Tremaine said.

  “That’s a fucking lie,” Chacon said. “Excuse my language, ma’am.”

  “And cursing in front of a ladylike ADA,” Tremaine said. “That must be some kind of fucking crime. Right?”

  “It don’t help none,” Concannon said.

  “I didn’t resist no arrest,” Chacon said.

  “You know a guy named Larson?” Jesse said.

  “Nope.”

  “He’s from Miami, too,” Jesse said.

  “Big city,” Chacon said.

  “And he was registered at the same motel you were, next room.”

  “Don’t know him,” Chacon said.

  “How about Estella?” Concannon said.

  “Nope.”

  “That’s odd,” Tremaine said. “He was registered to the same room you were.”

  “Must be a mistake at the front desk,” Chacon said.

  “Guy named Romero shared the room with Larson,” Tremaine said. “Know him?”

  Chacon leaned back and tried to look contemplative. Then he shook his head.

  “Nope,” he said. “Sorry. Don’t recognize the name.”

  Tremaine stood.

  “I’m tired of this,” she said. “He says something worth hearing, let me know.”

  She left the room. Chacon watched her go.

  “Nice ass,” he said.

  Concannon slapped him hard across the face.

  “Respect,” Concannon said.

  As soon as the door closed behind Tremaine, it opened again and a tall, fat cop with a shaved head and a roll of fat over the back of his collar came in and stood against the wall behind Chacon.