Robert B. Parker's Blind Spot

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “And . . .”

  “One’s missing.”

  “And . . .”

  “It was rented by a woman named Kayla Dante Prado.”

  “Send him in.”

  Ron Pearl was an athletic, good-looking kid who couldn’t have been two years out of college. He had the well-scrubbed, go-getter glint in his eyes. He wore a black golf shirt over blacker slacks and black loafers. Emblazoned on the chest of his shirt, over his heart, was an embroidered facsimile of the Mayflower done in brown and ivory thread. The words Mayflower Rentals showed above the masts of the ship. Beneath the keel the company motto—The gift of thrift—was done in red. Jesse gestured for Ron to sit in a chair facing the desk. The kid sat.

  “Molly tells me you’ve got a missing car?”

  “Yes, sir. A brand-new Chevy Malibu sedan, plate number—”

  “First thing, Ron, call me Jesse. Second thing is that I’m sure you’ve given all the car details to Officer Crane. Is that right?”

  “I did, Jesse.”

  “Good. I’m more interested in how you know the car is missing.”

  “It was an eight-hour rental. That’s a service we offer that our larger competitors don’t offer,” Ron said, his voice full of pride. “It was also supposed to be dropped off at our Logan Airport location. We understand that there are times people keep the cars longer than they’ve contracted for, and we write a clause into the rental contract—”

  “Interesting, but let’s stick to the program. Okay?”

  “Sorry. In any case, a red flag comes up on our daily reports if the car hasn’t been returned within a twenty-four-hour period.”

  Jesse nodded. “What if a renter were to return the car, but to a location different than the one specified? Let’s say she drove it to Hartford Airport and returned it there?”

  “The red flag would still come up. But I checked with all of our destinations and with those companies with which we have reciprocity agreements.”

  “No luck?”

  “Sorry, Chief—Jesse. The car isn’t anywhere in our system. Company policy requires me to report the car as stolen in the jurisdiction in which it was rented.”

  “That would be Paradise?”

  “It would. It’s a shame, too,” said the kid.

  “How so?”

  “I was the agent who rented her the car. She was beautiful, but there was something about her.”

  That piqued Jesse’s curiosity. “Something?”

  “A kind of sadness. Also, I think she’d been crying. Her eyes were all red. I hope she didn’t . . .” He stopped himself from saying it out loud.

  “You think she might have harmed herself?”

  The kid shrugged. “I was a business administration major, not a psych major. I don’t know. She just seemed so sad.”

  Jesse stood and held out his hand to the kid and they shook.

  “Thanks for coming in and for talking with me, Ron. If there’s anything else you remember, anything at all, please call—”

  “Wait! There is something. She asked me for a map of downtown Boston. She had me point out some of the popular sightseeing spots. I don’t know if that helps.”

  “No, Ron, that’s great. Thanks.”

  Jesse watched the kid leave his office and thought about their conversation. He thought back to what Dee had said the night before about her concern that Kayla hadn’t called. He walked out to talk to Molly. She was on the phone and looked behind her as Jesse walked toward her. She clicked the hold button.

  Jesse nodded at the phone. “Important?”

  “Just one of my kids. It can wait. The woman who rented the car was here the other day, wasn’t she?”

  “The black-haired one. Vic Prado’s wife. But you knew that. That’s why you sent the kid in to talk to me.”

  Molly nodded and said, “You look worried.”

  “Concerned.”

  “Okay, concerned. What’s up?”

  “Call Boston PD and give them the details on the missing car. Tell them we’re pretty sure it’s parked near one of the big draws.”

  “Are we sure?”

  “Not sure, but it’s a good guess. Also, you can’t tell BPD that it’s a guess. And tell them the woman who rented the car might be missing and is a potential suicide candidate.”

  Molly wanted to ask how Jesse knew all of this, but the look on his face told her to just do as he said.

  “After that, check with the airlines to see if they had a no-show for a flight to Albuquerque in the last forty-eight hours under the name Kayla Prado or Kayla Dante Prado. Then get a Taos listing for the Dante family. I think the dad’s name is William.”

  “When I get the number, do you want me to call?”

  “I’ll do that.”

  As he answered, the cell phone buzzed in his pocket.

  “Jesse Stone,” he said, putting the phone to his ear and walking back into his office.

  “You told me to call you if he showed up again, and he did and he beat the shit out of—” The woman on the line was beside herself, breathless and nearly hysterical.

  “Okay, okay, calm down. Who is this?”

  “Sharon.”

  Jesse searched his memory, but the woman on the other end of the phone couldn’t wait.

  “Sharon, from Burt’s All-Star—”

  “The waitress.”

  “Right.”

  “You told me to call you if Spider came back and made trouble for me,” she said.

  “Since you’re calling, I assume he came back.”

  “He beat the shit out of Hector!” She was screaming into the phone. “He came into Burt’s and shoved me aside, then he walked into the kitchen and just started beating on Hector. My God, his face is all fucked up and it’s all because he was good to me and my kids.”

  “Where’s Hector?”

  “I took him to the ER. Then I split and got my kids.”

  “I’ll call the Helton PD. I know some people over—”

  “No! You said to call you. That you’d take care of it. Anyways, the Helton cops don’t do shit about Satan’s Whores. You think Spider ain’t done something like this before?”

  “Where are you now?”

  She gave him the address.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Jesse checked his .38 and headed out of his office.

  “Where are you going?” Molly said.

  “To Helton.”

  “For what?”

  “To keep my word,” he said and then left.

  59

  Vic had to admit that Lorraine had been great. After reassuring him that visiting her aunt was a regular occurrence and that Mike never got suspicious of her—I’ve never given him a reason to be suspicious . . . until now—Vic relaxed. Although she came to Paradise with only one thing on her mind—a repeat performance of their tryst at the motel—she’d put her desires on hold and took good care of him. She’d cradled his head in her lap as he slept. She’d gone to the Chinese takeout place on Schooner Avenue and got him two quarts of hot chicken broth. She’d forced him to drink a liter bottle of water. She’d given him something for his headache that didn’t do any further damage to his stomach. Her patience ran out at about one in the morning and, feeling human again, Vic didn’t see how he could say no.

  When they woke at seven the next morning, Vic was feeling almost himself again and he’d figured out how to use Lorraine to help him get away, but he knew he had to be circumspect about how he broached the subject to her. He had no thought of actually telling her the truth, only enough of it so that what she told Mike would give him cover. First, though, he had to get her in a cooperative spirit. He kissed her on the neck, and she shuddered from the chills.

  “How do you do that to me?” she said. “Even in school you
could do that to me. I think you’re still the only man who could do that to me.”

  He pulled her by the hair. “Get into the shower. Now!”

  This time her shudder was more pronounced and it came with a not-so-soft sigh.

  “Come in with me, please,” she said, her voice a little breathless.

  “You first. I’ll be right in.”

  Lorraine got out of bed and walked unsteadily into the bathroom.

  Perfect! She would do exactly what he wanted and would provide the misinformation to Mike.

  When he heard the spray of the shower, Vic texted a coded message to his lawyer. His lawyer would set it all in motion: the crossing into Canada, the cruise down to the Caymans, the new identity, and everything else he had so meticulously planned. Vic knew that only idiots went through life without a plan B, and he was no idiot. Anticipation and adaptation was a big part of being a good ballplayer. Knowing what might go wrong and what to do if it did was more important in life than on the field. So Vic understood from the outset that even if everything had gone according to spec, he might have to run. Good thing. The reunion had gone terribly in terms of Jesse Stone, and that damned Joe Breen had to go and kill the girl. Every time he thought about that aspect of it, he shook his head.

  He turned for the bathroom and put the phone down on the nightstand. As soon as he did, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” began playing. He recognized Dee’s number. He wanted to let it go to voice mail but figured he should pick it up. He couldn’t afford Dee showing up at his hotel door with Lorraine Frazetta there. Whether he wound up boinking Dee or not wasn’t the point. It was that he couldn’t afford a scene and he couldn’t risk Lorraine’s ill will.

  “Yeah, Dee, what’s up?”

  “Can I come over now?”

  “Not now,” he said a little too loudly. “I need to wake up and shower and all. Then I want to get some breakfast in me.”

  “I can come over to see you afterwards?”

  “Why don’t I come over to your room?” he said. “It’s just easier, okay?”

  “I need to see you, Vic. Please.”

  “Okay, by noon. I promise.”

  “Have you heard from Kayla?”

  “I’m the last person she’d call. I’ve got to go.”

  He hung up, put the phone down, and went into the bathroom. Lorraine was in the shower, waiting for him.

  60

  Jesse never gave his word casually, and he never second-guessed himself about giving it. Sometimes he paid a price for it, but it was usually a price he was willing to pay. Today it had been the price of a motel room the next town over from Helton. It wasn’t a no-tell motel, but it wasn’t exactly the Four Seasons, either. Fifty bucks for the room and another fifty in cash for food was worth the few hours of security it bought for Sharon and her kids. He didn’t think taking care of Spider was going to be an all-day project and that Sharon could probably take her kids home in a couple hours.

  Now Jesse was standing at the door for 221B Locust Street in what looked to be the most run-down section of Helton. The area was largely made up of old squat concrete-block buildings with flat, tarred roofs and loading docks. These buildings looked like they had once been used as machine shops, for light manufacturing or warehousing. These were not the big, forlorn dinosaur factories Jesse had seen driving through the other side of town, but they were equally desolate. The door at 221B Locust Street was a battered, gray steel door with a peephole. Written on the door in red spray paint was a warning:

  SATAN’S WHORES

  STAY THE FUCK OUT!

  On the rolled-down corrugated-steel door by the loading dock was the gang’s pinup girl/devil’s head logo. There was a line of seven motorcycles on the pitted cobblestone street parked at an angle to the curb. Most of the bikes were Harley derivatives, black and muscular but without the affectations of the weekend rider. No fancy saddlebags or radios or polished chrome doohickeys. Recognizing Spider’s bike was easy. It had black widows painted in bright red on either side of its gas tank. Good, he thought. Better to deal with Spider directly and get it over with. He had a contingency plan to deal with Spider if the coward wasn’t around, but it was a bit more complicated and involved another member of Satan’s Whores. That contingency would almost surely have guaranteed a premature death for Spider and a burial at the bottom of a quarry lake without gang honors.

  Jesse took out his badge, held it up to the peephole, and kicked the door three times. The door creaked open and a guy who made Spider look puny filled the doorway. He was dressed in dusty black leathers, a gang vest over a faded and torn black-and-orange Harley T-shirt, and every inch of his exposed skin was tattooed. He stank of sweat and stale marijuana smoke. Jesse could easily imagine that every inch of his skin, exposed or not, was similarly adorned. He was mostly bald, but had a long, gray, braided ponytail that hung over his left shoulder down along his chest. He had a gray Fu Manchu mustache with a long soul patch that was braided and hung off his chin like a thin rope. His lips were wrecked and some of his teeth were missing. The ones that were still in his mouth were stained yellow.

  “I don’t know you, pig.”

  “That makes us even.”

  “Funny man.”

  “I have my moments,” Jesse said. “Can Spider come out and play?”

  “You got a warrant for Spider or a warrant to search the place, we’ll talk.”

  “You don’t look like a lawyer.”

  “Get the fuck outta here. You don’t want me to call Carney on you, do you, asshole?”

  “I’m not local. Call Carney. Call anybody you want, but just get Spider out here.”

  The big man shook his head and said, “Fuck off!” He started to turn his back on Jesse.

  “I asked politely. Now I’m done asking and done being polite.”

  Jesse unholstered his snub-nose .38 and shot out the front tire of Spider’s bike.

  “Wait a fuckin’—”

  Jesse shot out the back tire of Spider’s bike.

  “The next one’s in the engine block,” he said. “The one after that’s in you. Now get him out here. Now! Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .”

  “Spider! Get out here. Some pig’s messing with your hog,” the big man said.

  Spider came running out the door, face distorted in rage, but some of it went out of him when he saw it was Jesse. His groin had only just fully recovered from Jesse’s kick, and he remembered the threat Jesse had made the other day at Burt’s.

  “Hello, Spider,” Jesse said, his voice calm. “I told you what would happen to you if you bothered Sharon again.”

  “I didn’t touch her. I beat down that rice-and-beans-eatin’ little weasel that—”

  Jesse fired two shots into Spider’s engine block.

  “Motherfucker!”

  Spider ran over to his motorcycle, avoiding Jesse, and knelt down to check out the damage.

  “I told you what I would do to you, Spider.” Then Jesse turned to the big man. “Get the rest of your guys out here. When I kick Spider’s ass, I want you all to see it.”

  The big man did as Jesse asked. He watched as each of the other five Whores emerged from gang central. The fourth guy to come out onto the street was the man Jesse was hoping would be there. Sharon had described him perfectly. She said his name was Wallace, but that they called him Reaper. He was smaller than the rest of his gang brothers, but with a power lifter’s build. He was thick everywhere a man could be thick. He had enormous hands that he balled up into brutal-looking fists. His hair was long and black and his eyes were a disturbing icy gray.

  Jesse popped open the cylinder of his .38, held it up for the crowd to see, and turned it so that the spent shells and the last live round dropped out onto the sidewalk. The cartridges pinged and danced when they hit the concrete. Jesse snapped the cylinder shut, placed the weapon
in his jacket pocket, and removed his jacket. He laid it down on the pavement and rolled up his sleeves.

  “I just want you guys to know why I’m going to beat the shit out of Spider here. For one thing, he assaulted a woman named Sharon in front of me. Pretty stupid thing to do in front of a police chief,” Jesse said.

  “His old lady, his business,” said another one of the gang.

  “That’s the rules,” Spider said, puffing out his chest.

  The rest of them nodded in agreement, Reaper less enthusiastically so.

  Jesse wasn’t finished. “Then he told Sharon he was going to kill her kids. What was it you called them, Spider? Little retarded bastards, right? And that in the wild, lions kill the offspring of—”

  Before Jesse could finish, Reaper was on Spider. After one of Reaper’s punches landed in Spider’s midsection, Jesse understood why they called him Reaper. Spider’s ribs cracked with the nauseating sound that only bone and cartilage make when breaking. No matter how many times you hear it, there’s no getting used to it. But Reaper wasn’t done with Spider, not by a long shot. He grabbed Spider’s left arm and yanked it out of its socket. Spider wailed in pain.

  The big man turned to Jesse and said, “Get outta here, man. This is our business. Tell Sharon she won’t be hassled anymore. Tell her the Tsar gives his word.”

  Jesse picked up his jacket and left. He didn’t look in his rearview mirror.

  61

  Lorraine proved tougher to shed than a deer tick after he told her what he was planning to do. She’d been a little weird since they’d got out of the shower. Vic decided that he must have given himself away, that she sensed something was up even before he explained about how he was going to Mexico and then on to Belize.

  “Mike’s going to have me killed, babe.”

  When Lorraine gasped, Vic knew he had her. He had to give her credit, though. She defended her husband.

  “You’re wrong, Vic. Mike wouldn’t hurt you. He’s always looked up to you since we were kids. He still gets those big eyes when he talks about you.”