“Jesse Stone,” he said.
“Sit down, Mr. Stone,” she said. “You’re with the Paradise Police?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s something . . .” She looked distressed. “About a murder?”
He noticed she wore no wedding ring. It meant less than it once might have, Jesse knew. A lot of married women, especially married professional women, no longer wore wedding bands.
“Yes,” Jesse said. “Last week we found the body of a young woman who’d been dead for several weeks, in a lake in Paradise.”
“How awful.”
“Especially for her,” Jesse said. “She had been shot in the head.”
“Someone killed her?”
“Yes. On a chain around her neck was a Swampscott High School ring, class of two thousand.”
Jesse took the ring out and placed it on the desk in front of Dr. Summers. Dr. Summers was wearing a black linen suit and a crimson shirt. As she shifted in her chair to look at the ring, Jesse saw that the suit fit her very well. She was wearing a nice perfume, too.
“My God,” she said.
Jesse nodded.
“Is there a way to know whose ring this is?” Jesse said.
“From the size,” Dr. Summers said, “I assume it was a young man.”
“And a member of the class of two thousand.”
“Yes.”
“Any way to know which one?”
“We graduated a hundred and thirteen young men in June,” Dr. Summers said.
She crossed her legs. Jesse noticed that her legs looked good.
“Do you have any young women from the school that are missing?”
“None that I know of. It is, of course, summer. I’d have no way to know once school ended.”
“And the victim doesn’t have to be from your school,” Jesse said. “Does every graduating senior get a ring automatically?”
“No. They have to be ordered. And some students don’t bother.”
“To show you they don’t like the school,” Jesse said.
“I imagine so,” Dr. Summers said. “They are often among the more disaffected.”
“Not a bad thing,” Jesse said.
“Disaffection? No, not at all. Were you disaffected, Chief Stone?”
“You bet,” Jesse said. “Do you have a record of the orders?”
“No. We order from a company called C. C. Benjamin, in Boston. Did you attend college?”
“No,” Jesse said. “I went from high school to a minor-league baseball team.”
“Really? Did you ever play major-league baseball?”
“No. I was a shortstop. Got as far as Albuquerque and tore up my shoulder.”
“The one you throw with?”
“Yes.”
“That would be a bad injury for a shortstop.”
“Fatal,” Jesse said. “You follow baseball, Dr. Summers?”
“Lilly,” she said. “Yes, very closely.”
“Did your husband play?”
She smiled at him. “There is no husband, Chief Stone.”
Jesse smiled back at her.
“Jesse,” he said.
They looked at each other silently for a moment, and just as he realized suddenly that she was good-looking, he understood suddenly that she was sexual. Her eyes. The way she moved. The way she held herself.
“How will you identify her?” Lilly said.
“We’ll ask everyone who ordered a class ring to account for theirs.”
“And if they can’t?”
“It narrows the list. Then we ask around as to which of these guys had a girlfriend, and what was her name, and see if she’s missing.”
“Labor intensive,” Lilly said.
“It is,” Jesse said.
“Is it usually this laborious?” Lilly said.
“No, usually you got a pretty good idea that it was the husband, or Uncle Harry or whatever, and you set out to prove it. Murder is fairly unusual anyway, especially in a town like Paradise. Most of it is drunk driving and lost dogs and kids smoking dope in the town cemetery. But here we don’t even know who the victim was yet.”
“And there’s no missing-person’s report that would be her?”
“No.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“Yes.”
Lilly crossed her legs the other way. Jesse waited.
“How did you go from shortstop to policeman, Jesse?”
“My father was a cop,” Jesse said. “In Tucson. When I couldn’t play ball anymore, it seemed like the other thing I might know how to do.”
“And how did you end up in Paradise?”
“I was a cop in L.A. I got fired for being a drunk. And my marriage broke up. And I figured I’d try to start over as far from L.A. as I could.”
“Are you still drinking?”
“Mostly not,” Jesse said.
“Was that why your marriage broke up?”
“No,” Jesse said. “It didn’t help the marriage, and the marriage didn’t help it. But there were other things.”
“There always are, aren’t there.”
“You’ve been divorced?”
“Twice.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“No.”
Jesse was quiet for a time, sitting motionless in the straight-backed high school chair.
“Well,” he said finally. “Hello.”
11
They had lost 8 to 5. The field lights had been turned off and they were in the parking lot drinking beer in the semidarkness.
“I was a month out of high school,” Jesse said. “And we were playing in Danville.”
It was Jesse’s turn to buy the beer. It was in a green plastic cooler, buried in ice, in the back of Jesse’s Explorer. The rear door of the Explorer was up. Jesse’s glove was in the back of the truck, too, and the bases, and a green canvas bag with bat handles sticking out.
“Had a third baseman, an old guy, twenty-eight probably, ancient to be playing at that level. He was a career minor leaguer, and knew it, and played I think because he sort of didn’t know what else to do.”
The winning team was across the parking lot gathered around their beer cooler like hunters at a campfire. There was no hostility, but there wasn’t much interchange. After a game you clustered with your team.
“Anyway, in the first inning there’s two outs, nobody on and their three hitter pops up a goddamned rainmaker to the left side. We were playing in a damn cow pasture and the lights were set too low and the sucker went up out of sight.”
The smell of the lake was with them in the slow-deepening purple of the evening, and a few early explorers had arrived in advance of the inevitable insect swarm that would, as it always did, eventually force them to give it up and go back to the ordinary light of their homes.
“I’m looking up trying to find it when it comes back into the light, and the third baseman says, ‘You got it, kid.’ And everybody trots off the field while I’m weaving around out there looking for the ball.”
Everyone listened to Jesse quietly. They were men to whom such stories mattered. Men who would know why the story was funny. Men who could imagine the scared kid alone in the middle of the diamond looking up into the night for his first professional pop-up.
“You catch it?” someone said.
The younger guys listened most closely. Kids who would fall asleep in class, listening to Jesse talk about life in the minors, as if he were Socrates.
“Barely,” Jesse said.
Everyone laughed. They were happy with the story. They all knew that the better you were, the more you talked about your failures. Jesse was clearly the best player in the league, may
be good enough to have played in the majors if he hadn’t got hurt.
“You win the game?” someone asked.
“Don’t know. But I went two for four.”
Everyone laughed again. Jesse had been there. They could laugh with him at the pretense that players cared only about winning. You played ball, you knew better.
Jesse finished his beer. One more wouldn’t hurt. It was Lite beer anyway. You could drink a lot of Lite beer before you got drunk enough to show it. He plunged his hand into the ice-filled cooler and rummaged out another can. It had a round, solid feel to it, cold in his hand.
“You have a lot of groupies in the minors, Jess?”
“Not enough,” Jesse said.
“When I was playing football,” someone said, “we’d go into some town for an away game, they’d be waiting outside the visitors’ locker room.”
“You score?”
“During the game or after?”
They all laughed.
“After.”
“A lot more than during,” the football player said.
“What about AIDS?”
“It was before AIDS,” the football player said.
It was dark now. The kind of thick summer darkness that feels soft. Oddly the bugs hadn’t found them yet in thick enough quantity to drive them home.
“I remember playing hockey in Helsinki,” somebody said. “Outdoor rink. Was so fucking cold the puck froze. One of our guys tees up a big slap shot from the blue line and the goddamned puck shatters.”
People began to drift home. To wives. And children. And late suppers. And living rooms lit by the glow of a large-screen television.
“You find out who killed that girl yet, Jesse?”
“Not yet,” Jesse said. “But I went three for three tonight.”
12
“I got twelve names,” Jesse said to Lilly Summers. “Kids gave their class rings to a girl.”
“Makes last year’s class seem embarrassingly unromantic,” Lilly said.
“Embarrassingly,” Jesse said. “Seven of these kids can account for their girlfriends’ whereabouts, and we’ve verified it.”
“Which leaves you five.”
“Four of them are supposed to be at summer homes with their parents, but we haven’t been able to reach them yet. One boy doesn’t know where she is.”
“And her parents?”
“Kid didn’t know anything about her parents,” Jesse said.
“How could that be?” Lilly said. “What are the names?”
“Boyfriend’s name is William Royce,” Jesse said.
Lilly smiled. “Hooker,” she said.
“And the girlfriend is Elinor Bishop.”
“Oh dear,” Lilly said.
“You know them.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You have an address for her?”
“She called herself Billie. Yes, I have her address.”
“Could you talk to me,” Jesse said, “about Hooker and Billie?”
“How long do you have?”
“If it’s a longish story we could do it over lunch.”
Lilly smiled. She was wearing a pale yellow silk dress today.
“What a very good idea,” she said.
It was low tide. They sat in a small restaurant that looked out over Fisherman’s Beach at the gunmetal Atlantic rolling stolidly in onto the shiny sand. The ocean smell was strong. Even if you didn’t look at it, it was there in that mysterious way that the sea asserts itself.
“I hope it’s not Billie,” Lilly said.
“It’s going to be somebody,” Jesse said.
They ordered iced tea and looked at their menus. Lilly ordered a house salad, dressing on the side. Jesse had a tuna fish sandwich.
“Hooker Royce,” Lilly said, “is our All-American. Honor roll since first grade. Three sports, captain in all of them. All-state in football. Scholarship to Yale.”
“And he’s handsome and self-effacing,” Jesse said.
“How did you know?”
“They’re always self-effacing and handsome.”
“All of them?”
“All the small-school heroes, it’s part of the heroism. The expectations of the town force it upon them.”
“Even the handsome?”
“Might be sort of circular. Probably wouldn’t be the town hero if he were ugly.”
“Even if he were just as good?” Lilly said.
“Maybe,” Jesse said.
“Well, that’s cynical.”
“Or observant.”
She smiled at him. “Being observant would make you cynical,” Lilly said. “Wouldn’t it.”
“You seem observant,” Jesse said.
“I try.”
“But you don’t seem cynical.”
“I’m in the hope business,” Lilly said.
“Education?”
“Yes.”
“You think you might be saving them?”
“I have to think so, or hope so,” Lilly said. “Otherwise what have I done with my life?”
Jesse sipped his iced tea and looked at her. Lilly’s eyes were almond shaped and dark brown, maybe black. Her skin was smooth. She wore quite a bit of makeup, but carefully.
“What about Billie?” Jesse said.
Lilly breathed deeply through her nose. It made her chest move.
“Billie Bishop,” she said.
Jesse was quiet. Lilly shook her head gently.
“Billie is . . .” She stopped to think about it. “Billie is our town pump,” she said.
“Don’t beat around the bush,” Jesse said.
“I know. It’s a terrible thing to say, isn’t it?”
“We used to say it when I was a kid,” Jesse said.
“We all did,” Lilly said. “It says everything and nothing.”
Jesse nodded. There were potato chips with his sandwich. Jesse ate one.
“I’m more interested in everything,” he said.
“Yes.”
Jesse looked at the ocean. It was uninterrupted here, stretching to Spain. In Jesse’s imagination, the Atlantic was a gray ocean. The Pacific had been blue.
“Teachers hear things, and they gossip.”
“I’m shocked,” Jesse said.
Lilly smiled. “Billie,” she said, “is probably what we would have called, in less enlightened times, a nymphomaniac.”
Jesse smiled. “Not a bad thing in a woman,” he said.
Lilly looked at him thoughtfully.
“Sexuality is not a bad thing in a woman,” she said.
“It certainly isn’t.”
“But frequent indiscriminate sex probably is,” Lilly said. “However outmoded the phrase, it at least served to identify sexuality rooted in something wrong.”
“So does ‘town pump.’”
“Yes.”
“And there’s something wrong with Billie?”
“I think so. A school principal knows very little about the souls of her students.”
Jesse nodded.
“But I do know her external circumstances.”
Jesse waited.
“She is not a discipline problem in the sense of an angry, rebellious teenager that we all think of in this context. . . .”
Lilly stopped suddenly and looked at Jesse again. Jesse waited.
“I don’t know if I should be talking to you like this.”
“It’s okay,” Jesse said. “I’m the police.”
“You are not even one of our police,” she said.
“True.”
“There’s something so quiet about you.”
Je
sse nodded.
“And it’s charming in a way I don’t exactly understand,” Lilly said.
“Good,” Jesse said.
“That it’s charming, or that I don’t understand?”
“That I have your attention,” Jesse said.
They were silent.
“Yes, you do,” Lilly said finally.
Jesse smiled at her. She smiled back. Then she let her breath out audibly.
“Billie comes from a home,” she said, “that would be officially classified as ‘good.’”
“By which we normally mean two parents and some money.”
Lilly nodded.
“Anything wrong with the parents?”
“Except that their daughter is a mess,” Lilly said. “I don’t know. I’ve never met them.”
“Any of her teachers know them?”
“They were invited to come in and discuss their daughter’s problems several times. But they never did.”
“Siblings?” Jesse said.
“Her older sister graduated this school with honors. There is, I believe, a younger girl as well.”
“In school here?”
“No. Still in middle school, I think.”
“So aside from a tendency toward frequent indiscriminate sex, what kind of mess is she?”
“She failed a number of courses, which is, as you may know, in today’s educational climate, not easy.”
“She dumb?”
“No. Extremely passive. Apathetic. She never speaks in class. Between classes she didn’t interact with other students.”
“Didn’t?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve been talking about her in the present tense until you said she didn’t interact. Why the tense change?”
“Hooker,” Lilly said.
“She interacted with Hooker?”
“Intensely,” Lilly said. “Have you met him?”
“No, one of the other cops talked to him on the phone.”
“He’s a lovely boy,” Lilly said.
“So how did the school hero end up with the town pump?” Jesse said.
“I don’t know,” Lilly said.
“Maybe it was influenced by the nymphomania.”
Robert B Parker: The Jesse Stone Novels 1-5 Page 50
