Robert B Parker: The Jesse Stone Novels 1-5

by Robert B. Parker

  “You promised.”

  Kelly smiled and nodded at Jesse.

  “Just a formality,” Kelly said. “We need to cover ourselves.”

  “I wouldn’t want Gino to know,” Garner said.

  Kelly didn’t say anything.

  “Nobody’s going to know, right?” Garner said.

  “Certainly not,” Jesse said.

  Garner looked uncertain. The two cops were quiet.

  “Your word?” Garner said.

  “Absolutely,” Jesse said.

  61

  “I heard about how you shot a man,” Jenn said. “It was on the wire at the station.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “How does that feel?” Jenn said.

  “Necessary,” Jesse said.

  They were in Jenn’s living room. Sitting together on her couch. Jenn was drinking white wine. Jesse had a Pepsi.

  “Oh, Mr. Laconic. You must feel more than that.”

  “I try not to,” Jesse said.

  “You need to experience your feelings, Jesse.”

  “But I don’t need to talk about them.”

  “Are you angry? You sound angry.”

  Jesse was quiet for a short time.

  “Yes,” he said. “I guess I maybe am.”

  “At me?”

  “No.”

  Jenn leaned back against the arm of the sofa. She sipped a small amount of her wine, looking at Jesse over the rim of the glass.

  “What?” she said.

  Jesse stood and walked to the window and looked out. Then he turned and leaned against the wall beside the window.

  “Feelings,” Jesse said, “can really fuck you.”

  Jenn raised her eyebrows and didn’t say anything.

  “Guy I shot,” Jesse said. “Guy named Snyder . . .”

  Jenn nodded. Jesse noticed as he always did, how big her eyes were.

  “He couldn’t face it without being married to the woman he used to punch around.”

  “He beat her up?” Jenn said.

  “Regularly.”

  “And she stayed with him?”

  “For years,” Jesse said. “I had something to do with her finally leaving him.”

  “Why didn’t she leave him sooner?”

  “She didn’t have anything else.”

  “There must be something better than getting beat up all the time,” Jenn said.

  Jesse shrugged. “Poor bastard,” he said.

  “Her? I should think she’d be glad he was gone.”

  “Him,” Jesse said.

  “Because he’s dead?”

  Jesse drank some Pepsi.

  “Because he was so scared he’d lose her,” Jesse said, “that he lost her.”

  “Beating her up might not be the best way to keep her,” Jenn said.

  “He had to control her. Unless he could control her she might leave.”

  Jenn got up and poured herself a half a glass more wine. Then she sat back down on the couch and tucked her feet under her.

  “And when she did leave he tried to force it more,” Jenn said.

  “Yep.”

  “He tell you this?”

  “No.”

  “You’re guessing, then?”

  Jesse shook his head.

  “I’m not guessing,” he said.

  Jenn had put her wineglass down on the coffee table. She had never cared if she drank or not, Jesse thought. I wonder what that’s like.

  “You’re talking about you and me,” Jenn said.

  “Maybe a little.”

  “You’ve never hit me.”

  “No. I never would,” Jesse said.

  “But you know how he felt,” Jenn said.

  “Something about the way I’ve clamped on to you,” Jesse said, “you can’t stand.”

  “I love you, though.”

  “I know that.”

  “You’re my best friend in the world,” Jenn said.

  “I know that, too.”

  Jesse finished his Pepsi and got another can. He brought the can back from the kitchen and sat back down beside Jenn on the couch.

  “Maybe if I could let you go,” Jesse said, “then, maybe you could stay.”

  “There are problems I need to solve, too,” Jenn said.

  “Sure,” Jesse said. “But I don’t have to be one of them.”

  Jenn put her hand out and pressed it against his cheek.

  “The only way to have what you want is not to want it?” she said.

  “Something like that.”

  “And this man you shot,” Jenn said.

  “Snyder.”

  “He never learned that.”

  “Nope.”

  “And it killed him,” Jenn said.

  “With a little help from me.”

  62

  Suitcase Simpson called Jesse at home at 10:15 in the evening.

  “I’m at the motel,” Simpson said. “Shaw’s here.”

  “Is he in a room?”

  “One-twelve,” Simpson said. “Just arrived. Knocked on the door and went in.”

  “I’ll be up.”

  “Shall I stop him if he tries to leave?” Simpson said.

  “No. I want to catch him in the act.”

  It was 10:40 when Jesse pulled into the parking lot of the Boundary Suites motel. He drove through the big half-empty parking lot and parked a little ways from room 112. Simpson’s pickup was two cars away. Jesse walked to it.

  “He still in there?” Jesse said.

  “Yes.”

  “Stay put,” Jesse said.

  He walked to the motel lobby and flashed his badge at the night clerk.

  “Room one-twelve,” he said. “Who’s registered?”

  The clerk was slim with a thin mustache and a lot of dark hair. He wore yellow-tinted aviator glasses.

  “Why do you want to know?” he said.

  “ ’Cause I’m the police,” Jesse said. “Gimme a name.”

  The clerk tapped for a moment on his computer and then read from the screen.

  “Marsha Gottlieb,” he said.

  “We need to open the room.”

  The desk clerk didn’t like it. But he didn’t know what else to do. So he got a key and walked down to room 112 with Jesse. As they walked, Jesse gestured to Simpson, who joined them at the door.

  “Don’t knock,” Jesse said. “Just unlock the door.”

  “We always knock first,” the clerk said.

  “Unlock it,” Jesse said.

  The clerk shrugged as if to exonerate himself, put the master key in, and unlocked the door. Jesse pushed. It opened a few inches.

  “Chain lock,” Jesse said. “Do your stuff, Suit.”

  Simpson put his shoulder down and lunged into the door. The screws holding the chain bolt pulled loose from the frame and the door slammed open. The lights were on. Shaw was on the bed with a young girl. Both were naked. Shaw just managed to roll off her as Jesse and Simpson came into the room. Jesse was holding his badge up. The desk clerk peered in after them.

  “Beat it,” Jesse said to the clerk, and shut the door.

  Simpson leaned against it.

  Shaw was sitting up with a pillow over his lap to cover himself. The girl seemed frozen. There was a quart of vodka, a can of cranberry juice, some ice, and two half-empty glasses on the bedside table.

  “What do you want?” Shaw said.

  Jesse could hear the panic in his voice. The girl lay still on the bed. Her eyes big. Her breasts had barely begun to show.

  “How old are you?” Jesse said to the girl.

  Th
e girl shook her head and didn’t say anything.

  “I know you,” Shaw said.

  “You should get under the covers,” Jesse said to the girl.

  She kept staring at him, without any response.

  “Get off the bed,” Jesse said to Shaw.

  Shaw got up quickly and stood naked, with his pale belly sagging.

  “What are you going to do?” he said.

  Jesse pulled the spread loose on Shaw’s side and folded it over the girl. He looked at Shaw.

  “You don’t have the right to just break in here like this,” Shaw said.

  There was no force in his voice. He sounded plaintive.

  “How old would you say she was?” Jesse said.

  “Twenty-one,” Shaw said.

  “She’s jailbait,” Jesse said.

  “She is not,” Shaw said. “She told me she was twenty-one.”

  “Put on your pants,” Jesse said.

  He looked at the girl, still motionless under the spread. He looked around the room. There was some black underwear and a short floral sundress on one of the chairs. Jesse picked the clothes up and put them on the bed beside the girl.

  “You need to get dressed, too,” he said.

  The girl didn’t move.

  “You’re not in trouble,” Jesse said to her. “But we need you to go with us.”

  Still she didn’t move.

  “If you don’t get dressed,” Jesse said, “we’ll have to dress you.”

  Wordlessly, she put the covers aside and got up and began to dress. Simpson looked carefully away.

  “Where are we going?” Shaw said.

  He was speaking slowly and very clearly, like a drunk pretending to be sober.

  “We are going to jail,” Jesse said.

  63

  Joni Shaw came to her front door in a pale blue sundress.

  “Well, hello,” she said.

  “May I come in?” Jesse said.

  “Of course.”

  Carrying a manila envelope, Jesse walked through the gleaming air-conditioned house and sat again in the atrium.

  “Thank you for calling last night,” she said.

  Jesse nodded.

  “Is Norman still in jail?”

  “He’ll be out this morning,” Jesse said. “I wanted to talk with you first.”

  “I’m not clear what he was arrested for. Drunk driving?”

  “We found him in a motel room with an underage prostitute,” Jesse said.

  He could hear Joni Shaw breathe in sharply.

  “Oh, God!” she said.

  “It’s not the first time,” Jesse said.

  She didn’t say anything for a time. She studied Jesse’s face as if she were looking for something.

  “Are you sure?” she said finally.

  Jesse opened the manila envelope and slowly spread out Dick Pettler’s pictures of Shaw. Joni Shaw looked at them for a moment, then pushed them away.

  “Those are little girls,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “How long ago were those pictures taken?”

  “During a previous marriage,” Jesse said.

  “I don’t . . .” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It gets worse,” Jesse said.

  “Worse?” Joni Shaw said.

  There was no way to ease it in.

  “We’re pretty sure he killed one of them.”

  “Killed?”

  “Does he own a gun?”

  “A gun? You mean he shot someone?”

  Jesse nodded. Joni Shaw had her arms folded across her chest as if she were hugging herself.

  “Mother of God,” she said.

  Jesse didn’t want to bombard her. He waited for her to reorganize.

  “You know this stuff?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus,” she said. “The fucking pervert.”

  “Does he own a gun?” Jesse said.

  “I guess I sort of knew it,” Joni Shaw said. “You know how you know something and you don’t know it?”

  Jesse nodded.

  “He was out a lot, and drunk nearly all the time,” she said.

  Jesse nodded again.

  “Look at me,” she said. “If you were married to somebody like me, wouldn’t you stay home nights?”

  “Yes.”

  “He wasn’t a big deal in bed,” she said. “All that stuff in the books? Bullshit! Most of the time he was too drunk to get it up.”

  “Did he own a gun?” Jesse said gently.

  “Probably too old for him,” she said. “How old was the kid you caught him with last night?”

  “She admits to fourteen.”

  “Fourteen? Jesus Christ!” she said. “Sick bastard.”

  I’ll circle the gun, Jesse thought.

  “You love him?” he said.

  Joni Shaw looked puzzled for a moment. She hunched her shoulders, still hugging herself.

  “He’s famous. . . . He’s got money. . . . We didn’t have much of a sex life but he was nice to me most of the time. . . .” She looked suddenly straight into Jesse’s eyes. “And sex is easy to get.”

  “I would think so,” Jesse said.

  “He was never . . .” She paused. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Jesse said. “He was never . . . ?”

  “He was never a mean drunk,” she said. “And when he was sober he was really quite charming.”

  “So it was a happy marriage.”

  “Sure. He was a good provider. And I,” she said, “made him look, ah, potent.”

  “Did he own a gun?” Jesse said.

  Joni looked at Jesse as if she’d never heard the question before.

  “A gun?”

  “Un-huh.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

  64

  Kelly brought Alan Garner into Jesse’s office at quarter to ten in the morning.

  “Picked him up as soon as he came to open the office,” Kelly said.

  “Gino know?”

  “Not yet.”

  Kelly leaned against the wall by the door and folded his arms. Garner stared at Norman Shaw. Shaw was sitting beside Jesse’s desk. He had a bad hangover. His face was stiff. His movements were careful. His hands shook a little.

  “I want a lawyer,” Garner said.

  “You’re not under arrest,” Jesse said.

  “Then I want to leave.”

  “Be in your best interest,” Jesse said, “to stay.”

  Garner looked at Kelly. Kelly shrugged.

  “Long walk back to Boston,” he said.

  “I want to call Gino.”

  “Alan,” Kelly said. “Right now we have you for a few small pimp charges. You might get away with no time.”

  “We could jack that up to murder,” Jesse said.

  Garner sat down, suddenly, beside Shaw. His face had gotten smaller. He had trouble swallowing.

  “What murder?”

  Shaw said, “Should I have a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know,” Jesse said. “Should you?”

  “I haven’t done anything,” Shaw said.

  Jesse nodded.

  “You know a kid named Billie Bishop?” Jesse said to Shaw.

  “Of course not.”

  “Why ‘of course not’?”

  “Well, I mean, I know who I know, for God’s sake.”

  “And you don’t know Billie Bishop?”

  “No.”

  Jesse looked at Garner.

  “Alan?”

  “What?”

 
; “Does he know Billie Bishop?”

  “You said I wouldn’t . . .” Garner said. “You promised I wouldn’t have to testify.”

  “I lied,” Jesse said. “Does he know Billie Bishop?”

  “I can’t . . . Gino . . .”

  “One of you will go down for this,” Jesse said. “You want to be it?”

  “Down for what?”

  “Killing the kid,” Jesse said.

  “I didn’t kill anybody.”

  Jesse waited. Kelly was still and expressionless leaning on the door. Shaw seemed to have shrunk in his chair.

  “I just introduced him to her.”

  “Shaw to Billie?” Jesse said.

  Shaw made a stifled sound as if he’d been hit.

  “Yes.”

  “You deliver?”

  “Deliver?”

  “Do you bring the girls to Shaw?”

  “Usually yes. I mean, these girls don’t usually have a car.”

  “And if they did, they’re not old enough to drive,” Kelly said.

  “Every one of them told me she was at least twenty,” Shaw said suddenly.

  His voice seemed high and unnatural, almost petulant. Nobody responded.

  “And you drive them to the motel?”

  “Yes. And give them money to register. No credit card, you know? Cash in advance.”

  “This isn’t what it sounds like,” Shaw said. “I’m thinking of doing a book on prostitution.”

  “You own a gun?” Jesse said.

  “A gun?” Shaw’s voice was almost a squeak.

  “A gun.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Jesse opened the drawer of his desk and took out the gun Shaw’s wife had given him and put it on the desk so Shaw could see it. Shaw looked at it without speaking. Jesse waited. Leaning against the wall, Kelly smiled like a happy wolf. He waited. Alan Garner sat absolutely still, trying to attract no attention.

  “That’s not my gun,” Shaw said finally, his high voice shaking.

  “How could it be?” Jesse said. “If you don’t own one.”

  “That’s right,” Shaw said.

  Jesse was quiet again, looking at Shaw. Shaw tried to hold his gaze and couldn’t and looked around the office in a dreadful parody of unconcern.

  “Do you have any coffee?” Shaw said.

  Jesse said, “No.”

  Everyone was silent again. Shaw couldn’t keep from looking at the gun on Jesse’s desk. After a time Jesse spoke. His voice sounded too loud to him.