Robert B. Parker's Blind Spot

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “Getting hurt was a gift.”

  “How do you figure that?” Jesse said.

  “Because you could drink with Oz and tell him how great everything would have been and how you would’ve been the greatest shortstop ever, but you never really had to test that out, did you? You never had to get in the box against Maddux or Randy Johnson. You never had to play short on the crappy infield at County Stadium in Milwaukee in April with frozen hands. Getting hurt saved you from having to prove yourself every day. This way, Jesse, you’ll always be the golden boy. You’re like James Dean.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Your career died young and pretty. Your baseball career will always be full of promise and potential. Your skills will never diminish. You’ll always bat a thousand and never make an error. I saw the glove on your desk. You’re still living the dream.”

  “Have another drink, Vic. I like it when you talk crazy. All those women, all those guaranteed contracts, all the adulation, all those all-star games . . . man, must’ve been rough on you.”

  “Fuck you, Stoney.”

  Jesse poured himself another Black Label. He drank it all in a single gulp. “Did you do it on purpose?”

  “Do what on purpose?”

  “In Pueblo, when you fielded that ball in the hole, did you hesitate? Did you wait for the runner to get on me before you threw the ball?”

  “Now who’s talking crazy?” Vic said. He wasn’t smiling.

  “Not much of an answer.”

  “Who put that thought in your head? Blanco? I bet it was Blanco, that miserable prick. Was it Julio?”

  “Not much of an answer.”

  “Yeah, Jesse, you said that.”

  “I can keep saying it. Your choice.”

  Vic finished his drink and poured himself another. “You want the truth?”

  “It’d be nice for a change. You don’t hear a lot of truth in my line of work.”

  “Truth is, Jesse, I don’t know if I hesitated or not. If I did, it wasn’t because I was trying to get you hurt. It was more likely that I was admiring the fact that I got to the ball at all on that shitty infield. Did I want Kayla? You bet your ass. Every straight guy with a pulse in Albuquerque wanted her. But even if I was the most calculating bastard on earth, how could I know that a takeout slide would ruin your career? In all the years I played ball, I’ve seen plenty of guys get hurt making the pivot and relay throw to first on a double play. I saw guys get wiped out twice as bad as you. I seen guys land on their heads, get spiked, get their ACLs and MCLs ripped up, but I never saw a guy land on his shoulder and get ruined the way you got ruined. Not before. Not since.”

  Jesse just nodded. What else was there for him to do?

  “How are you and Dee doing?” Vic said, happy to change the subject. “You two seemed to hit it off.”

  “So far, so good. How did you guys meet her?”

  Vic tilted his head in surprise. “She hasn’t told you?”

  “We’ve been too busy with other things.”

  “I just bet you have. God, is she not gorgeous?”

  “How’d you meet?”

  “You are a persistent bastard. She moved into our gated community in Scottsdale about a year ago. Kayla and her hit it off immediately, but I think she spends more time with me. She’s a tennis nut and can shoot.”

  That made Jesse sit up a little straighter. “She shoots?”

  “Like an assassin. You should see her with a sidearm, any sidearm. I’m good. She’s great. Good thing I’m better at tennis.”

  “She tell you her story?” Jesse said.

  “Poor little rich girl. Inherited some money, I think. Something like that.”

  Jesse hoped Vic might shed a little more light on the subject, but he didn’t seem so inclined. He poured them both a little more scotch. Neither bothered to lift their glasses to the other. They were way past that, twenty years past. Jesse stood, sat on the railing to face Vic. Prado didn’t know it yet, but their conversation was about to move away from the personal to the professional.

  “Today when you came to the station,” Jesse said, “why did you disrespect Officer Crane like you did by barging into my office?”

  “Officer Crane’s pretty hot for a woman her age.”

  “She’ll be thrilled to hear it, but—”

  “I wanted to surprise you,” Vic said. “Nothing more than that. Please send her my apologies.”

  “Funny you should say the word surprise.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Because it seemed to Molly—Officer Crane—and me that I was the least surprised person in the room.”

  “I’m not getting you, Jesse. Is there something I’m missing here?”

  “Did you know the man who was in the office with me when you came in?”

  “No, should I have? Who is he?”

  “He’s a lawyer named Monty Bernstein.”

  Vic laughed. “There’s a name for you. Sorry, never met him.”

  “How about the older gentleman you passed on your way into the station?”

  “The nasty-looking guy with the pipe clenched in his teeth?”

  Jesse nodded.

  “Nope,” Vic said. “Sorry. Who’s he, another lawyer?”

  “Bernstein’s client. A rich guy from an old local family named Harlan Salter the Fourth.”

  “Don’t know him. I hope the first three Harlan Salters were cheerier than number four.”

  “Probably not. I don’t think cheery is in their DNA sequence, but he’s got good reason to be miserable. His son’s girlfriend was murdered recently and his son abducted. The kid was released, but he’s in the hospital.”

  “That’s rough. Will the kid be okay?”

  “You’re a cop long enough, Vic, you learn that okay is a relative term. He’ll recover from his injuries. Whether he’ll get over the guilt about his girlfriend and the trauma of being held captive is something else.”

  Prado shrugged. “He’s young yet. He’ll have time to heal.”

  “So you’re sure you don’t know either Bernstein or Salter?”

  “Look, Jesse, I’m famous. I’m not complaining. Fame certainly has its perks. It opens up all kinds of doors, if you know what I mean. Fame is like a drug to people who don’t have it. Fame makes you more charming, better-looking, wiser. Men want to be your friend. They want to buy you drinks and dinners. They want to give you stock tips and take you golfing. Women . . . they just want you. But it’s also weird. People recognize me all the time or think they might recognize me. They can act strange when it happens. I’m pretty used to it. So why the third degree? Would it matter if I knew those guys?”

  “Guess not. Just curious.”

  They drank some more, so much so that the air on the deck smelled of stale breath and scotch. They were slurring their words now, no longer finishing their sentences. As they got drunker, their silences got less uncomfortable. Jesse was looking out at the water. It wasn’t Dodger Stadium, he thought, but it was pretty damned good.

  “You know, Vic, I never got to ask you what that reunion was really for.”

  Vic didn’t answer. Jesse waited. Then asked again. Vic still didn’t answer. When Jesse turned around, Vic Prado was passed out in his chair.

  51

  Vic Prado woke up to the tune of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” coming from his iPhone. God, how he had come to hate that song, yet it played into his image. Everybody, but most particularly the starstruck investors, loved it when his phone went off in their presence. There were times he had arranged for someone to call him in the middle of a meeting to remind the people of just who he was: Vic Prado, former all-star second baseman for the Dodgers. If he survived his wicked hangover headache, he swore to change the ringtone to anything else. He didn’t bother checking the incoming number. Part of him
hoped it was Kayla and, given the pounding in his head, he didn’t want to be disappointed.

  “Vic here.”

  “You sound horrible.”

  “Kay?”

  “No, Vic, it’s Dee.”

  “Dee!”

  He sat up too quickly in bed and a jolt of pain shot through him. Worse, he got dizzy and nauseated.

  “Hold on a minute,” he said.

  He put the phone down and scrambled through Jesse’s house to find a bathroom. About three minutes later, he found his way back to the guest bedroom and the phone he’d left on the floor beside the bed.

  “Dee, you still there?” His voice was shaky. He was shaky.

  “I’m here. Are you all right?”

  “She left me, Dee. Kayla—”

  “I know, Vic.”

  “You knew about this and you didn’t say anything to me?”

  “I found out as she was packing her car to go. I don’t think this was a big plan or anything.”

  “But why yesterday of all days? I mean, I didn’t even see her for a few days.”

  Dee said, “I don’t think it was about you as much as it was about her.”

  She liked that. It was one of those lines that sounded deep and significant, but actually meant very little.

  “I guess. She said stuff about how unhappy she was with herself in the letter she left me. Do you know where she went?”

  Dee lied. “No clue. Have you heard from her? Did she call or text you or anything?”

  “No. Why, was she supposed to?”

  “She promised to call me when she got to where she was going, but I haven’t heard from her.”

  “That’s not like her,” Vic said. “Then again, I’m not sure what’s like her anymore. Leaving me the way she did isn’t like her, either.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m pretty hungover.”

  “Where are you?” Dee said, feigning concern. “I can come get you.”

  “Stoney’s house.”

  “Stoney?”

  “Jesse’s. It’s a long story. Listen, Dee, I got to take something for my headache and get water in me. What are you calling for, anyway?”

  Holding the photos Abe had given her in her hand, she said, “I need to see you.”

  That got Vic’s full attention. Also got his hopes up. He’d always wanted Dee, but now that she was Jesse’s, he wanted her even more.

  “Maybe later. I’m wrecked.”

  “Call me when you’re feeling better. I really need to see you,” she said, stressing the word need.

  He noticed, but hung up without committing to a time. As much as he wanted to console himself with Dee, he had more pressing business. As he walked slowly around Jesse’s house, looking for aspirin, he thought back to the previous evening. The fight was nothing. Guys, even guys their age, found a certain comfort in mild forms of violence. Men were always testing themselves, testing one another. He remembered that his mom used to say that men got older but they never grew up. Vic smiled, thinking about that and remembering his mom. Then the smile vanished as he remembered other parts of his time with Jesse. Why did Jesse have to bring up Bernstein and Salter? Why’d he have to bring up the dead girl and the Salter kid?

  Fuck! It had all gone so wrong. He had so carefully manipulated everything and everyone and it had all blown up because of that idiot Joe Breen. Thinking about Breen frustrated Vic at the best of times, now it was making his headache even worse. He found a Costco-sized bottle of aspirin under the bathroom sink and swallowed a handful. He took another bunch and shoved them in his pocket. He went to the kitchen, drank the town reservoir half dry, and made an ice bag for his head. He found a note from Jesse on the counter. Too late, Vic thought, he’d already found the aspirin and he was in no mood for food. As he waited for the aspirin to take hold, he walked past the poster of Ozzie Smith and made a face at it. Did I hesitate on that throw to Jesse? Did I want Kayla so bad that I tried to get Jesse hurt? It was impossible to know anymore.

  A half-hour later, he dialed Harlan Salter’s phone number.

  52

  Joe Breen rolled over to the opposite side of the bed and was immediately aware that Moira was gone. His heart sank and there was the briefest moment of panic. The snap of fingers lasted longer. Still, he thought, if this was love, he wasn’t sure he wanted any part of it. The ache he felt during that finger snap in time cut a jagged fist of a hole right through him. It hurt worse than any punch that had ever landed on him, worse than even the deepest, most ragged stab wound that had ripped into him, worse than the two gunshot wounds he had absorbed.

  What he couldn’t fathom was why Moira. Over the years he’d had many of these art-school girls warm one side of his bed and many of them a fair bit better-looking than Moira. Could it be that he felt connected to her because she came from Ireland? That her accent, unlike his uncle’s, was sweetly lilting and fell like music on his ears. Could it really be that simple?

  She was paler than most of the other girls, and that was a bold statement, given how little of the sun most of these girls seemed to expose themselves to. And thin! Goodness, the girl looked as if she barely ate at all. Her teeth were a bit crooked and her wispy light brown hair fell off her head as if each strand had a will of its own. But there was no denying her eyes were rare gems. They were deep blue crystals, flecked with black and gold. When he looked into them, damn him if his knees didn’t weaken. The thing that scared Joe was what followed in the wake of the knee-weakening rush: the overwhelming panic at the thought that she wouldn’t always be in his life or that someone like himself could cut her out of his life. And that was followed by something even more foreign to him than love: regret. He couldn’t get the image of the lifeless nude body of Martina Penworth out of his mind. He shook his head as if trying to shed the image. For fuck’s sake, he thought, next thing he knew he’d be praying for his deeds to be undone.

  His momentary panic was erased by the aromas wafting into his bedroom from the kitchen and the padding of Moira’s feet heading his way. Before she got to the bedroom door, Joe’s mouth was watering. The sweet and smoky scents of crisp fried bacon and breakfast sausages were so strong he swore he could already taste them. There were eggs, too, and maybe toast. There were other scents as well, not as familiar. Moira came through the door, a breakfast tray in her arms. A mock frown on her face.

  “I’d hoped ya’d still be asleep, Joe. Now ya’ve gone and spoiled me surprise.” When she saw that he had taken her joke to heart, she said, “Don’t be daft, Joe. I was only havin’ a piss with ya.”

  Joe smiled at her and stared at the tray in Moira’s hands. Lorraine Frazetta had bought the tray for him when he moved into the house as a kind of nasty joke. Lorraine could never imagine anyone who would want to share Joe’s bed. Could never imagine anyone whom the heartless bastard would ever bother serving breakfast in bed to. Could never imagine anyone caring enough about Joe to serve him.

  “What’s this?” he said as Moira placed the legged tray over Joe’s lap.

  “Have ya never had a good Irish fry? It’s a breakfast that’ll last ya the day. Fried eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, black pudding, strong Irish tea—”

  “Black pudding?”

  “Don’t ask, Joe, just eat.” She bent over and kissed his forehead.

  “Aren’t you going to have any?”

  “I’ve eaten mine. I used to think my ma was mad when she said she just enjoyed watchin’ Da eat her cookin’. Now I know. I just wanted to watch you enjoy.”

  Joe wasn’t a man who needed to be told twice. He dug into the food with the same gusto as when he made love to Moira. He wanted to please her in all ways. But as he ate, Martina Penworth haunted him.

  “Is it not to yer likin’, Joe?”

  “I love it. Just work stuff getting to me.” He pulled her close and kissed h
er hard on the mouth. “I love it and I love you.”

  His heart stopped. He closed his eyes. He had never uttered those three words before, and the panic returned. When he opened his eyes, Moira was smiling at him. But before she could speak, the doorbell rang and there was a fierce knocking at Joe’s door. Joe’s face went ice cold. His voice colder.

  “Stay here.”

  He closed the bedroom door behind him. He went into his hall closet, pulled out the third shoe box stacked on the floor, opened the lid, and grabbed the loaded .45. He didn’t prefer the .45, but he didn’t want to grab the nine-millimeter he kept near the bed in front of Moira. He racked the slide to chamber a bullet and went to answer the door. He stood to the inside of the door opposite the knob so that if anyone shot through the door he would be safe. He aimed the .45 at where a six-foot-tall man’s torso would be.

  “Yeah, who is it.”

  “Open this fucking door right now. I don’t have time for this crap.” It was Mike Frazetta.

  Joe opened the door, putting the .45 in the drawer of a cabinet in the hallway. Joe wasn’t alarmed by his boss showing up at his door because Mike hated using the phone unless he absolutely had to. It was the one thing he was paranoid about. When Mike came in, Joe put his left index finger across his lips and nodded at the bedroom door. Mike understood and smiled.

  “I got you,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

  “What is it?”

  “I want you to keep an eye on Vic. I think he might run, maybe even skip out on us before he delivers the envelope to Salter.” Mike handed Joe a slip of paper with the address of Vic’s hotel in Paradise.

  “What do you want me to do if he runs.”

  Mike slapped Joe playfully on the cheek. “Do what you do best.”

  Mike winked and walked out the way he came in. Joe smiled as he went back to breakfast. Then he thought about Martina again and Moira standing on the other side of the bedroom door. He stopped smiling.

  53

  Jesse came into the station carrying a dozen donuts and wearing his baseball-style Paradise PD hat pulled down low. Suit Simpson was at the desk, talking to Molly Crane. All Suit noticed was the box of donuts. Not Molly, but she didn’t say anything in front of Suit. When Suit, donuts in hand, headed back out on patrol, Molly went to talk to Jesse.