Trouble in Paradise js-2

by Robert B. Parker

  "Harry, why are you doing this?" Marcy said. She could feel the panic rising in her throat.

  "What are you going to do to me?"

  "Already did it, Marce, already did it," Harry said.

  He was looking out the window through the small space between the blind and the casement frame. The Indian took some gray duct tape from the bag, tore off a strip, and taped her mouth shut. He put the rope and the duct tape neatly back in the bag and, without any apparent effort, turned her over onto her back. He slid one of the couch pillows under her head and adjusted her so that she looked comfortable. Then he picked up the gym bag and went to the window where Harry was standing. He took a shotgun out of the gym bag. Harry turned from the window and the Indian replaced him. Harry came and sat on the edge of the couch where Marcy lay.

  "You breathe all right?" Harry said.

  Marcy nodded.

  "Good. You have any trouble, make some noise, and we'll check on you," Harry said.

  "We're going to be here for a while. Use this as sort of a headquarters. I don't think you'll have to be tied up too long."

  He stood and went to the washroom and looked in. There was no window. He turned back to Marcy.

  "You got to go to the bathroom, make some noise about that.

  We'll untie you and let you close the door. You understand?"

  Marcy nodded.

  "Fine."

  Harry turned away and went and sat in the swivel chair behind Marcy's desk. He put the pistol on the desk, looked at his watch, picked up the phone, and dialed.

  "It's me," he said into the phone.

  "We're here, and we're set up."

  He listened.

  "Okay," he said.

  "You got this number, right... Say it... Okay... You need to, call me here."

  He hung up and looked at the Indian.

  "The dance has started," Harry said.

  His eyes were bright, Marcy thought, as if he had a fever. Still looking out the window, the Indian nodded without speaking.

  Maybe it's not me, Marcy thought. Maybe they are going to do something else.

  FORTY-ONE.

  The maroon Chevrolet van was registe to Wilson Cromartie of Tucson. Suitcase Simpson came in with the information and sat down across from Jesse. He was bulky enough so that the chair was a tight fit, and he had to adjust his gun forward a little to get comfortable.

  "Guy lives off Swan Road," Jesse & "That mean something?"

  "Good neighborhood," Jesse said "You know Tucson?" ?

  "Grew up there. My old man was with the Sheriff's Department."

  "Cochise County?" Suitcase said.

  "Everybody knows Cochise County," Jesse said.

  "Least I know one," Suitcase said.

  "Cochise is down around Tombstone," Jesse said.

  "My old man was Pima County."

  "You know anybody there still?" Suitcase said.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Maybe you should call him up and see what he knows about Wilson Cromartie."

  "You think?" Jesse said.

  "Sure, I mean if something's going on and we don't... ah shit, you're kidding me again aren't you?"

  "Only a little," Jesse said. He leaned forward and shouted for Molly to come in from the front desk.

  "I want to talk to a Pima County, Arizona, sheriff's deputy named Travis Randall," Jesse said.

  "He knew my father. He'll remember me."

  "I'm on it," Molly said.

  When she left, Suitcase looked after her.

  "I believe you were eying Molly's ass," Jesse said.

  Suitcase reddened.

  "So?"

  "She's married and has two kids, Suit."

  "Doesn't make her ass ugly," Suitcase said.

  "Good point."

  In ten minutes, Molly stuck her head into Jesse's office.

  "Lieutenant Travis Randall on line one, Jesse."

  Jesse picked up.

  "Travis?" he said.

  "Jesse, how ya doing?"

  "You got promoted."

  "Had to happen sooner or later," Randall said.

  "Hell you got to be chief."

  "Says so right on my desk plate," Jesse said.

  "Your old man still around?"

  "No."

  "Sorry to hear that."

  "Thanks, he's been gone a while. I'm looking for anything you might be able to tell me about a guy named Wilson Cromartie.

  Lives in Tucson."

  Jesse gave him the street address.

  "Familiar name," Randall said.

  "Lemme punch him up here."

  "You're working a computer, Travis?"

  "Goes to show you," Randall said.

  "You can teach an old dog new tricks."

  "Guess so. I'm going to put you on speaker phone."

  "Sure."

  Jesse punched the speaker phone button and hung up the receiver. Suitcase sat across the desk from him, listening to the airy silence of the speaker phone. Being a policeman excited him.

  Working on even the small-town cases he got to work on was thrilling to him, and he watched Jesse who had been a big city cop in Los Angeles as if he were magical. Randall's voice came back.

  "Yep that's him. Crow."

  "Short for Cromartie?"

  "I suppose," Randall said.

  "But he spells it C-R-O-W. Claims he's an Apache Indian."

  "Is he?"

  "Could be. You can see Indian in him."

  "Tell me about him," Jesse said.

  "He's a bad man," Randall said.

  "Contract killer."

  "Connected with anybody?"

  "Freelance. He's good. Gets plenty of work."

  "Warrants?"

  "Nothing outstanding," Randall said.

  "Hard to get anyone to say anything about Crow."

  "You got a description?"

  "Black hair, brown eyes. Six feet, hundred and ninety pounds.

  Muscular. Indian features. Very neat. You seen him or just the car?"

  "I saw him," Jesse said.

  "Be very fucking careful of him, Jesse."

  "Sure."

  "Whether he's got a gun or not," Randall said.

  "Okay. You got any idea what he might be doing here?"

  "

  "Here' is around Boston?"

  "Yeah."

  "Not that I know about. Lemme look some more."

  Again Jesse and Suitcase listened to the sound of silence running along the wires from Arizona.

  "Here's something," Randall said.

  "He was convicted of armed robbery along with a guy named James Macklin. Knocked over a liquor store in Flagstaff. Macklin is listed as being from Dorchester, Mass."

  "Part of Boston," Jesse said.

  "They do time?"

  "Three years in Yuma."

  "Both get out?"

  "Far as I know."

  "Anything else on Macklin?"

  "Nope."

  "Description?"

  "Nope."

  "Okay, Travis, thank you."

  "No problem," Randall said.

  "I'll keep sniffing around out here.

  I come across anything else, I'll call you."

  "Do that," Jesse said.

  "And Jesse, don't you or anyone try to take Crow alone. He don't care if you're a cop or not."

  "Would you try to take him alone, Travis?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "We'll be cool," Jesse said.

  "And don't be a stranger, boy. Your father and I was pretty tight.

  Betty and me be happy to have you visit."

  "Thanks, Travis. I'll keep it in mind."

  Jesse leaned over and switched off the speaker.

  "Suit," Jesse said.

  "See what you can come up with on James Macklin of Dorchester."

  "Whaddya think is going down, Jesse?"

  "Maybe they're just having a reunion, Yuma, class of eighty eight Jesse said.

  "Maybe it's got nothing to do with us."
<
br />   "I'll bet it's the Paradise Bank, Jesse. I'll bet they're going to knock over the bank."

  "We're not supposed to bet, Suit. We're supposed to find out.

  So go find out about James Macklin of Dorchester, Mass."

  Suitcase stood up.

  "Yes sir, chief," he said.

  "And you heard what Randall said about Crow. If Randall wouldn't go him alone..."

  "Randall a tough guy?" Suitcase said.

  "You have no idea," Jesse said.

  Suitcase nodded and headed to the door, then stopped as if he'd forgotten something.

  "Oh, chief?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You taking your vitamins?"

  "And eating a lot of oysters," Jesse said.

  Red-faced with delight at his own joke, Suitcase went out the door.

  FORTY-TWO.

  It was 9:00 A.M. when Freddie Costa pulled the big power boat away from the town landing in Paradise Harbor and began to move slowly among the moored sailboats toward the buoys that marked the channel. He had a full tank of gas, and the engine was tuned. A Winchester rifle lay in its rack above the door. There was no need to hide it. A lot of people on the ocean carried a rifle with them. He sipped coffee from a big plastic mug. The sun was bright, coming in from his right, over the rooftops of Paradise Neck, as he headed north toward the harbor mouth. The wind was off the water, blowing straight toward him, and it raised a short chop that made the bow pound as he drove slowly through it. He didn't mind the chop. He'd been on the ocean most of his life, since his father used to take him out on the scallop draggers from New Bedford. He liked the ocean. He liked it best when he was alone on it, and the sun was out, like today, and fragments of it were ricocheting off the water. Some gulls trailed the boat hopefully for a while, but when there was no food forthcoming, they peeled off and went back to foraging around the restaurant on the wharf.

  It would take awhile, with the headwind, to beat out of the harbor and around to the other side of Stiles Island. That was okay. He didn't have to get there soon. It might not be until tomorrow that he would take them out. He'd idle off-shore, maybe drop anchor for a while, and then when the flare went up, he'd pull in and they'd wade out to him. Then he would take them up around Cape Ann and put them ashore north of Port City, where Faye would be waiting with the van. He'd keep going north, maybe to Portsmouth, and lay up for a while until everything calmed down. Then he'd head I back south to Mattapoisett with his money and maybe do some sport fishing.

  As he stood at the wheel, he could feel the faint comforting vibration of the big engine. The boat was neat. The ropes coiled.

  Everything polished. To his right, the big homes on the neck had lawns that sloped to the water. In most cases, they were sustained by massive sea walls Often there were stairs cut into the sea walls and small boats bobbing below them at wooden floats. To his left the town rose idiosyncratic ally A jumble of church spires and eighteenth-century buildings ascending Indian Hill. The big square steeple of the town hall, with the big clock face on all four sides, rose above most of the buildings halfway up the hill. On top of the hill, Costa could see the green mass of the park.

  The boat pushed on out of the harbor mouth past Stiles Island, barely tethered to Paradise Neck by the small bridge. Nice-looking bridge, Costa thought. Costa liked constructs: engines, bridges, buildings, ships. Too bad about the bridge, he thought. The houses on Stiles were even bigger than the houses on Paradise Neck, but there was less variety. From the harbor, as Costa chugged past them, they looked nearly the same, with only an occasional variation in the color of the siding or the shingles. Past Stiles Island point, Costa turned the boat east and ran it straight toward the morning sun along the north shore of Stiles.

  He used to bring a dog on board with him, but his wife had gotten the dog when she divorced him, along with almost everything but the boat. It was all right. He could get another dog. Get a purebred this time, a big dog, maybe one of those Dalmatians. He liked Dalmatians. He was planning to have one by now, but he couldn't bring a new dog on board for a deal like this. He'd get it when he went home. Get a male. Be a good watchdog for the boat.

  Off the right side of the boat, he saw the cove, down past the seaside restaurant with its big picture windows, bright and blank with reflected sunlight. He throttled back to idle and let the boat drift awhile with the wind and the chop. There was no sign of activity.

  Nothing was happening on the island. He looked at his watch.

  10:10. Macklin was scheduled to have set up by now on the island, and Macklin was big for schedules. Costa smiled a little. Or he says he is, Costa thought.

  FORTY-THREE.

  Jesse drove up to talk with Harry Smith.

  He brought Suitcase Simpson with him and Anthony De Angelo Both of them wore vests and carried shotguns. If Travis Randall was afraid of the Indian, Jesse would be too.

  "Stand by in the car," Jesse said.

  "If I ' get scared, I'll holler."

  Walking up the stairs to the front door of condo 134, he could feel the muscles tighten across the back of his shoulders.

  He'd seen some scary gang bangers in South Central L.A." but there was something about the way Randall had talked about the Indian.

  Mrs. Smith answered the door. Jesse was not in uniform, and she drew a blank at first. He showed her his shield.

  "Jesse Stone," he said.

  "Paradise Police."

  Faye felt a stab of fear run the length of her gut.

  "Oh, yes," she said.

  "Chief Stone. What brings you here?"

  "Well I was hoping to talk with Mr. Smith. Is he home?"

  What did he want? Why was he here? The thing on Stiles Island had already started. How could it be a coincidence? She had to make him talk. She had to know.

  "No, I'm sorry. He's not, may I help you with something?"

  Faye noticed that there were at least two more cops below in the cruiser.

  "I don't know," Jesse said.

  "May I come in?"

  "Of course."

  She stepped away from the door, and Jesse went into the apartment. The wall opposite was all glass and looked straight out onto Boston Harbor, with the Boston skyline across the water. The doorway to the bedroom was ajar, and Jesse noticed that the ceiling was mirrored. Atta girl, Mrs. Smith. She was a good-looking woman.

  Nice body, looked strong.

  "Coffee?" she said.

  "Or something stronger? I suppose I shouldn't say that, should I? You being a policeman on duty and such She did the fluttery housewife thing pretty well, Jesse thought, but if you paid attention there were a lot of little details that suggested strength, not flutter.

  "Nothing, thank you, Mrs. Smith. May I sit?"

  "Of course. Please call me Rocky."

  "Short for?"

  "Roxanne," she said.

  Jesse nodded. Faye marveled at how she'd pulled "Roxanne" out of the air. What the hell would "Rocky" be short for?

  "Do you know anyone named Wilson Cromartie?" Jesse said.

  "Wilson Cromartie, no. I can't say I do," she said.

  It was an easy lie for Faye because when he said the name, it didn't mean anything. Only as she was saying it over, did she realize that it was Crow.

  "Maybe you don't know him by that name," Jesse said.

  "He's an American Indian. Says he's Apache, calls himself Crow."

  "I'm sorry, Chief Stone. I really don't know anyone like that."

  Jesse nodded again. He was pleasant and easy speaking. But Jimmy had said he was more than he seemed.