No one wants to advertise his deal with the devil. Jesse Stone was no exception. He hadn’t told anyone where he was headed or what he had in mind. Less chance of someone doing the wrong thing or playing the hero if nobody knew what he was up to. What he’d told them was that he was going home to shower and shave, to get on some fresh clothes, and that he’d be back in an hour or two. It all sounded reasonable enough, and he figured they’d all be preoccupied with tracking down Joe Breen.
When his Explorer came through the other end of the woods, through the abandoned security shack, past the eight-foot-high stone walls, and around the traffic circle, Jesse realized just how alone he would be. Masthead Manor was one of those McMansion developments of faux-Victorians and fancy, brick-faced colonials that the financial collapse had rendered ghost towns. Only a few of the thirty or so units had been completed. The rest lay in various states of construction. Some lacked only their façades, whole sections of Tyvek house wraps flapping in the wind like ragged-toothed sails. Others were nothing more than concrete foundations and a few sheets of plywood decking. Time at Masthead Manor seemed to have stopped mid–hammer swing. In the dim predawn light and gray mist, it felt to Jesse like a movie set for the end of the world.
Masthead Manor was laid out in six circular streets. The homes with the largest lots, backyards to the woods, were on Connecticut Circle, the outermost street. Jesse imagined it would look like a crop circle or a cornfield maze from the air. As instructed, he parked his Explorer in the unpaved driveway of 4 Connecticut Circle. The house itself was nothing more than a foundation and one floor of framed walls. He walked through the lots to 1 Rhode Island Circle, the innermost and, unsurprisingly, smallest of the six streets. Surrounded by vast stands of old-growth pines, the development—a forty-five-minute drive west-northwest from Boston—was so isolated that not even the local teenagers had happened onto it. There wasn’t one bit of graffiti anywhere, nor had any of the windows been broken or shot out.
The three homes on Rhode Island Circle had been completed, though their lots were nothing more than dirt mounds. One Rhode Island was a big colonial. Jesse noticed that the windows of this house, unlike any other in the development, had been boarded over. He wasn’t sure he liked that, but there wasn’t much to like about any of it. He found the most level path to the front door. He didn’t hesitate. It was too late for second thoughts. The room was dark in spite of the light leaking through the front door.
“Close the door behind you, Chief Stone, and take two steps straight ahead. And, Chief, I will be able to see everything you do very clearly. Remember that.”
The voice was high-pitched, with no discernible regional accent. Not only couldn’t Jesse identify an accent, he couldn’t see the man giving him the instructions. But he did as he was told, closing the door and taking the steps. The room was now black and momentarily silent. The silence was broken by a grating metal noise followed by a sharp click.
“Do you recognize that sound, Chief?”
“M-4?”
“Fair guess. It’s an MP-5, and if you deviate in the slightest from my instructions I will empty the clip into you before you can have another thought.”
“No need to threaten me, Mr. Peepers. I’ve been warned about you.”
“Use that name again and I will shoot out your kneecaps. And that would be just for starters.”
“Understood. I’m not here to do anything but give you what you want and get Kayla out of here.”
“Then this should be fairly simple. Place the item in question at your feet and take two more steps ahead.”
Jesse took the camera out of his pocket, placed it by his feet, and stepped. He felt something touch his forehead, and he fought not to react.
“You are a cool customer, aren’t you, Chief Stone. Most people would have jumped at that touch.”
“I’m not most people.”
There was a strained, nasally laugh in the darkness. “Everyone thinks that about themselves. That they aren’t like most other people. You would be very disappointed to discover that you are exactly like most people in any manner that counts.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
Peepers paid the question no mind. “That was a string you felt. There is a flashlight attached to the end of it. Pull the string up until you have the flashlight in your palm. Do not aim it at my voice. Doing so—”
“My kneecaps. I remember. Besides, I saw your face even before I stumbled onto the camera. You were at the accident scene in Helton. I walked right in front of your car.”
“So you did. Shine the light on the floor at the camera.”
Jesse shined the light at the camera, but Mr. Peepers did not react.
“We both know it’s not the camera you want,” Jesse said. “It’s the camera chip and the photos I printed out that you want.”
There was a short burst of gunfire. Jesse fell to the floor, reflexively covering his head, for all the good it would have done him. But the camera was the only casualty.
“Now you are going to tell me you don’t have the chip or photos on you. Would that be about it?”
“That’s about it,” Jesse said. “You aren’t a stupid man. I’m not, either. I didn’t figure Kayla would be with you. You tell me where she is, I tell you where the chip and photos are.”
“And I should trust you because . . .”
“You’ve spoken to Gino Fish. If he didn’t vouch for me, we wouldn’t be standing here. Kayla would be dead and you would be gone. My word counts for something.”
“Mrs. Prado is in the basement of the house next door to your left. She’s unconscious but alive and relatively unharmed. A shame, really. I would have enjoyed destroying her one little piece at a time.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you enjoy it?”
“Do you ask a praying mantis why?”
Jesse stopped before he made Mr. Peepers angry again.
“But she’s okay,” he said.
“My word counts for something, too, Chief. You will find a bonus in the basement as well.”
“You killed Harlan Salter?”
There was that nasally laugh again. “You’ll see. Now, Chief, the chip and photos.”
“Front seat of my SUV. Door’s open.”
“Unoriginal,” Peepers said.
“I’m just a cop. We’re not known for our creativity.”
“Go to the door and throw your car keys, cell phone, and weapon away from the house.”
“I’m unarmed and I left my cell phone in Paradise,” he said. “Those were your instructions.”
“Your keys, then. Shut the door when you’ve finished. When you’ve done that, strip. All your clothes off.”
Jesse considered barking about that last part, but he did as he was told. Only when he was unhitching his belt did he realize Mr. Peepers had already gone.
83
Jesse threw on his shirt and jacket, buckled his belt, and yanked the flashlight off its string. He ran to the house next door. As he ran he heard a car engine turn over, its tires rolling over rocks and dirt. He didn’t bother looking for it. He wanted nothing more to do with Mr. Peepers, and he hoped Peepers wanted nothing more to do with him. He realized the killer wouldn’t be pleased that Jesse had fudged the truth a little about the quality of the photographs, but at least Peepers would know there weren’t any photos of him, good or bad, out there. The front door to the Victorian was open. When Jesse found the access to the basement, he used the flashlight to navigate the darkened steps.
The house was vast, as was the basement, and it was about thirty seconds before he found Kayla—nude and unconscious, but breathing—in a room lighted by a dozen portable lanterns. She was faceup on a stainless-steel table. There was a nasty burn mark the size of a man’s fist on the inside of her left thigh. He folded up his shirt an
d placed it under Kayla’s head. He put his jacket over her to keep her warm. While tucking the jacket around her, he heard muted groaning. He looked around the room and found a closet door. There on the concrete floor in a puddle of blood was the nude, barely conscious Vic Prado. His face was wrecked, his lips exploded. His arms were bent at unnatural angles. And it took Jesse a second to realize that the annoying little stones scraping under his boots were Vic’s teeth. But before he could bend down to lift Vic up, there was gunfire.
Jesse was sprinting in the opposite direction through the lots he had taken to get to 1 Rhode Island Circle. Through the framing of two unfinished houses, he saw his Explorer, the front door flung open. As he got closer and his sight lines changed, he noticed the front end of another vehicle. It wasn’t a white Nissan Sentra but a black Chevy Silverado. His heart jumped into his throat and his guts twisted in a knot because he recognized the pickup as Suit Simpson’s. He didn’t want to believe it, but he had very little choice. From half a street away, Jesse saw what he prayed he would never see: Suit Simpson facedown on the ground next to the open door of his truck.
“Fuck! Fuck!” Jesse screamed as he ran, tears streaming down his face.
Jesse loved Suit like a little brother and had always feared something like this might happen. In spite of what Jesse told him, Suit would never have made it as a big-city cop. Jesse didn’t know what he would do if Suit was dead. Then he saw movement. Suit was clawing at the ground. Jesse remembered that he’d ordered his people to wear their vests since DeAngelo had been murdered at the mall by those psychos the Lincolns. That made him breathe a little easier until he reached Suit and saw all the blood.
He pushed Suit’s nine-millimeter out of the way and flipped Suit onto his back. There was a line of blood across his abdomen.
“What are you doing here, Suit?” Jesse said, stripping off Suit’s jacket and pressing his palms down hard on the wounds.
“I think I winged him, Jesse.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“Initiative, Jesse. You’re always after me to take the initiative.”
“If you live, I’m going to kill you.”
Jesse patted Suit’s pockets for his cell phone. Found it. Dialed 911.
“Officer down! Officer down! Multiple gunshot wounds. Multiple victims.”
When he was done giving the location, he went back to stanching the wounds. Suddenly, Suit’s chest was heaving and he was gasping for breath.
“I . . . I knew you were . . . lying . . . Jesse. You didn’t e-even spot me following . . . you. I figured . . . you might need . . . back—”
“Did I ask you for backup?”
“I heard the . . . gunfire jus-just as I . . . pulled up, but . . . I didn’t know where it—”
“Shut up, Suit. That’s an order.”
“Then I saw the . . . white Sen . . . tra and I—I clipped him.”
“You said that. Now shut up! Help is coming.”
“Okay, Jesse.”
Then Suit Simpson went quiet.
84
Joe Breen should have left Scottsdale for parts unknown after Mike called him and warned him he was burnt. That Mike used a phone at all should have let Joe know how bad things were.
“My guy in the Boston PD says your picture’s all over the freakin’ place. They’re looking for you on some stupid assault charge in Paradise, but my guy says it don’t smell right. They must’ve figured out you did the girl. You tell me where you land at and I’ll wire you money.”
But Joe Breen hadn’t run. Running wasn’t in his nature, but that wasn’t the issue. It wasn’t even that his split kit—a hundred grand in cash, a fake passport, driver’s license, a knife, and a Glock—was in a self-storage locker in Newton. It was Moira. He couldn’t walk out on her without an explanation or without asking her to come with him. Art was something you could do anywhere, and so was love. He knew he had some time, that it would take the cops a while to find his house because he hadn’t bought it in his name. So instead of heading north, south, or west from Scottsdale, Joe Breen headed back to Boston.
“Moira, Moira!” he called to her as he came through the front door. “Come on, we’ve got to talk.”
But there was no answer.
“Come on, Moira. I know you’ve no classes this late.”
When there was still no answer, he went looking for her in the kitchen. If she’d left a note about shopping, it would be there. As he approached the kitchen, something told him to slow down. Whether it was an unfamiliar smell or the nature of the quiet, he couldn’t say. He looked at the decorative mirror another art-school girl had made for him that hung on the wall facing the kitchen. What he saw in the glass was Moira, the left arm of a nerdy-looking bastard wrapped around her throat, and the muzzle of a Sig Sauer pressed to her temple. He could have turned and been out of the house in a few seconds, but if he hadn’t run from Scottsdale, he wouldn’t run now. He put his arms in the air and stepped slowly into the kitchen. Moira’s eyes were wide with fear, and when he appeared in the kitchen, tears began running down her cheeks. She shook her head as much as she dared.
“Run, Joe! Run!” Her voice was choked and cracked.
Mr. Peepers said, “He won’t run.”
“You’re right. I won’t. You’d be Salter’s man, then.”
“Something like that,” Peepers said.
“Then you’re here to extract payment.”
“Same answer.”
Now there was an added look of confusion in Moira’s expression.
She said, “What are you talking about?”
Neither man responded.
“Well, the girl hasn’t run a tab,” Joe said. “She’s done nothing wrong.”
“Wrong place, wrong time. Keeps the wrong company. She’s done a lot of wrong,” Peepers said. “Easy way or the hard way? The harder it is for you, the easier for her.”
“Let’s talk deal.”
Mr. Peepers smiled. He liked this part. When they bargained. It always started with bargaining. Eventually they’d get to begging. Then praying for death. He liked that part best of all.
“I’m listening.”
“To start, there’s a key to my locker in Newton. A hundred grand. But money won’t be enough for you. No,” Joe said. “You enjoy your work. So name your price.”
“Would you slit your own throat to save her?”
“In a way, I’ve already slit me own throat.”
Peepers didn’t like that answer and squeezed harder on Moira’s neck so that she was choking.
“Stop it,” Joe said. “Yes, I’d slit me own throat gladly if you’ll let her walk out of here.”
“Too easy.” Peepers relaxed his hold on her neck.
“Let me put it to you like this, then,” Joe said. “I’m good at this myself, you know, and I’ve got a lot to answer for. I can force you to make it quick for the both of us. If I rushed you now, from this close, you’d have to put one in my head or risk me getting to you. Believe me, I’ll take a lot of killing, certainly more than one nine-millimeter. I think you know that. More than one shot up here and you risk my neighbors hearing the shots. You’d have to do her quick or drag her out of here. Or you can let her go and take your time with me. You let her go. Once I know she’s safe, you can have your way with me.”
“How do I know you won’t run?”
Joe said, “Name it.”
Mr. Peepers nodded at the knife block on the kitchen counter. “Take the chef’s knife and cut your Achilles tendon.”
“Which one?”
“Both.”
Moira let out a muffled scream. Peepers squeezed her neck again.
“Moira, don’t fight him,” Joe said. “I’ve got to answer for my sins. I’ve killed people for insults and money. I’ve killed people on the word of others. You’ll be the bet
ter without me. Please let me do this for you.”
Joe put his arms down, slowly removed the chef’s knife from the block, and placed a folded dish towel in his mouth. He sat down on a kitchen chair, rolled up his left pants leg, and rolled down his sock. He put the blade to the taut skin at the back of his leg.
“No deal,” Peepers said. “The second she gets through the door, she’ll scream her head off, and the cops will be here in two minutes. We can’t have that. Cut the tendon and I promise to do her quickly. You’ll have to watch it, but it’s all I’m offering. Clock’s running. Tick. Tick. Tick.”
Joe leapt forward out of the chair. Almost before his body straightened he felt the burn and tear of the bullet, but his momentum carried him into Moira and Peepers. Peepers’s choke hold on Moira’s neck released as he reflexively threw that arm behind him. Moira was knocked to the side as they all landed. Peepers let out a grunt, the tear in his shoulder from where the cop had hit him opening up. Blood soaked through the dressing, then his shirt and jacket. But he was good at his job and kept firing the Sig into Joe’s body.
“Run!” Joe screamed. “Run!”
He heard her feet on the tile floor, and just before he took his last breath he realized that redemption sounded like a slamming kitchen door.
85
Diana Evans left her bags by the front desk and walked into Jesse Stone’s office. She had stayed in Paradise for the last ten days and had made the ride to visit Suit Simpson with Jesse every day until Suit was taken off the critical list. And she had stayed long enough for Vic Prado to confess his litany of sins to several law enforcement agencies, including the Boston PD, the FBI, and the SEC. Of course he blamed his involvement on Mike Frazetta and Joe Breen. Mike Frazetta blamed Vic. No one quite believed either of them.
“You hear Vic’s confession?” she said.
“Some of it.”
“Their scheme was pretty smart. Pyramiding funds from one private firm to pay off investors at the next and skimming a small percentage. Madoff’s mistake was that he did it too boldly. This was the same idea on a much smaller scale and spreading it around. It would have worked, too, as long as their inside connection at the SEC alerted them to firms with possible violations.”
Robert B. Parker's Blind Spot Page 28
