28
In a spitting snow, Jesse sat in his car with the motor running and the heater on, in the parking lot outside Channel 3. He looked at the digital clock on his dashboard. Jenn would have finished her six o’clock weather. He had the wipers on low interval and between swipes the sporadic snow collected thinly on his windshield. At 6:40 Jenn came out wearing a fake fur jacket and a cowboy hat. She was with a man Jesse didn’t recognize. Jesse sat for a moment listening to his own breathing, feeling his interior self dwindle and intensify. Jenn looked up at the man and laughed and bumped her head against his shoulder. Jesse turned off the motor and got out of the car. He was aware of the gun on his hip, under his jacket. Jenn saw him.
“Jesse?” she said.
“You didn’t return my calls,” Jesse said. “I thought I’d catch you here.”
Jenn looked at him silently for what seemed to Jesse a long time, then she said, “Jesse, this is Bob Mikkleson, our station manager.”
Bob was tall and healthy-looking, with silver hair combed back carefully, and lovingly sprayed. He started to put his hand out, realized Jesse wasn’t going to shake hands, and put his hand back at his side.
“I’m sorry,” Jenn said, “but I’m up to here. You’re on the list, I would have called you tomorrow.”
Jesse nodded and moved slightly closer to Bob. He didn’t know why, and he hadn’t planned to. There seemed to be a force outside himself. Jenn was single; she had every right to be with Bob. Bob wasn’t doing anything wrong. Jesse moved a little more toward him, as if compelled by gravity. Bob was frowning.
“What was it you called about, Jesse?” Jenn said.
“Just to talk,” Jesse said.
“Well,” Jenn said. “Let me call you tomorrow. Bob and I have a dinner reservation.”
“Sure,” Jesse said.
He was next to Bob now. What if I shot him? The possibility made his spirit expand. But, it would mean the end of whatever was left of Jesse and Jenn. Even if he got away with it, she could never get past it. He could feel himself contract again. The muscles in his neck and shoulders bunched. He closed his eyes for a moment and took in a long drag of winter air.
Bob said, “You’re the ex-husband.”
Jesse nodded.
“Are you all right?” Jenn said to him.
Jesse nodded again.
“You’re some sort of police chief,” Bob said. “Somewhere on the North Shore.”
Jesse realized that he was so close to Bob now that their sleeves touched. He nodded.
“Well,” Bob said. “It’s been good talking to you, but we’re already late for our reservation at 9 Park, and you know how hard they are to get.”
Jesse neither moved nor spoke. He could feel Jenn watching him.
“Jesse,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
“Jesse,” Jenn said again. “We’ve done a lot of work since I came here from Los Angeles.”
Jesse’s shoulders moved, as if he were trying to loosen them.
“Don’t ruin it,” Jenn said.
Bob was two or three inches taller than Jesse. His skin had the smooth blue tone of a man who shaved twice a day. As close as he was, Jesse could break Bob’s nose with the first punch.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Jenn said.
Bob nodded at Jesse, and the two of them walked toward Bob’s car. Jesse watched them until they drove away. Then he walked slowly to his own car and opened the door and got in. He sat in his car with the door open and one foot still outside, and put his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing.
29
She was driving the Saab through the narrow downtown of Paradise. He sat beside her in the front seat with a Canon digital camera, which was small enough to sit comfortably in the palm of his hand.
“Her,” she said.
He photographed a copper-haired woman pushing a stroller.
“We doing a woman next?” he said.
“Even it up,” she said. “We’ve two men and a woman.”
He sang, “A boy for you and a girl for me.”
She joined him.
“Can’t you see how happy we will be.”
They both laughed.
“How about that good-looking black woman?” he said.
“Certainly,” she said. “We’re not racists.”
Again they laughed together. He snapped a picture of the black woman.
“Don’t see many black people in Paradise,” he said.
She giggled.
“If we decide on her, you’ll see one less,” she said.
He nodded, his eyes scanning the sidewalks.
“I want this one to be a knockout,” he said.
“Your choice,” she said.
He photographed a tall woman in a lavender warm-up suit.
“This is fun,” he said.
She turned the car right onto a street leading to the waterfront.
“I suppose it shouldn’t be fun,” she said.
“You mean other people would think it was awful?”
“Yes.”
He put the camera on his lap and leaned back against the seat.
“When I was in college,” he said, “we had to read something in English class by some old-time guy called the Venerable Bede. I don’t remember it much, but I always remember one scene. There’s this big banquet hall and it’s brightly lit and there’s a big warm fire. Outside it’s cold and dark. But inside everybody’s eating and drinking and having a hell of a time. A sparrow flies into one end of the hall, out of the cold darkness, and flies through the bright warm hall and out the other end into the cold darkness again.”
She glanced at him as she drove. He loved to pontificate.
“So?” she said.
“So human life is like the flight of the sparrow. Or maybe it was a swallow. I can’t remember, but the point’s the same.”
She pulled into the little parking lot by the town landing and parked in front of the restaurant.
“We’re only here for a little while,” she said, “and we have the right to make the most of it.”
“Some people collect postage stamps,” he said. “We like to kill people.”
“Is it really the same?” she said.
“After we’ve done it, and we’re making love, and the sex is like nothing else either one of us has ever known . . . the feeling . . . wouldn’t you kill for that?”
She breathed in deeply for a moment and reached over and put her hand on the inside of his thigh.
“Yes,” she said.
“Me too,” he said.
They sat silently for a while watching the people. A dark-haired woman in a tailored suit came out of the Gray Gull. She was carrying a briefcase and talking on a cell phone. He raised his camera and aimed.
“Her,” he said.
30
“I don’t know why I went there,” Jesse said.
“Why did you think you were going?” Dix said.
“She wasn’t returning my calls. I thought maybe I could catch her coming out and we could have a drink or something.”
“Catch her,” Dix said.
“You think I was trying to catch her with a guy?”
“Do you?”
Dix was wearing a black turtleneck sweater today. And gray slacks. His bald head and clean-shaven face were shiny clean. His thick hands were motionless on the arms of his swivel chair, which he had tipped back while he listened to Jesse. His fingernails looked manicured.
“I want to kill anyone she’s with,” Jesse said. “I feel like I’ll explode if I don’t.”
“Because . . . ?” Dix said.
�
��Because I love her.”
“But,” Dix said, “you don’t kill anyone.”
Jesse shrugged and smiled a little.
“Because I love her,” Jesse said.
“You win, you lose,” Dix said. “You lose, you lose.”
“Exactly. Ain’t love grand.”
“It might not be love,” Dix said.
Jesse straightened a little in his chair.
“Do shrinks believe in love?” Jesse said.
“I do,” Dix said, “loosely speaking.”
“I love her,” he said. “If I know nothing else, I know that.”
Dix nodded.
“You accept that?” Jesse said.
“Sure,” Dix said. “But almost everything human operates at more than one level.”
“You think there’s something else at work?”
“Don’t you?”
Jesse sat for a moment, looking at the palm of his right hand, flexing the fingers.
“I imagine her with them,” Jesse said. “Having sex.”
“She ever tell you about it?” Dix said.
“God no,” Jesse said.
“So you don’t know what she’s doing in fact.”
“I can imagine,” Jesse said.
His voice was hoarse. He cleared it. Dix was entirely still in his chair. Jesse saw that he was wearing black loafers with tassels, and no socks.
“Knowledge is power,” Dix said.
Jesse stared at him. Dix’s face never showed anything. Jesse folded his hands and sat back in his chair with his elbows resting on the chair arms. The room was quiet. He heard his chair squeak as he shifted in it.
“But I don’t know what she’s doing,” Jesse said.
“So you invent it,” Dix said.
“Yes,” Jesse said. “I guess I do.”
“How long have you been inventing her life?” Dix said.
“Always,” Jesse said.
31
Suitcase Simpson sat very straight in the chair across from Jesse’s desk. He was always serious when he reported. Like a kid, Jesse thought, giving a school report on Denmark.
“Bo Marino,” he said, “is around school bragging about how he spent a night in jail. Troy Drake is staying clear of Bo, and Kevin Feeney hasn’t been in school for the past three days.”
“You try his house?” Jesse said.
“Not yet, I wanted to check with you first.”
“Okay,” Jesse said. “Go get him.”
“What about Drake?”
“We don’t know that Drake was involved,” Jesse said.
“Candy said . . .”
“Candace,” Jesse said. “And we didn’t get any of this from her, remember?”
Simpson nodded.
“And take Molly with you,” Jesse said.
“You think I can’t handle this alone?”
“I’ve seen you handle worse than this alone, Suit. Molly has a calming effect on parents.”
Simpson looked pleased for a moment, and left. Jesse picked up the phone and called Abby Taylor.
“You still representing Bo Marino?” he said when she answered.
“No.”
“Old man fire you?”
“He didn’t get the chance,” Abby said.
“Good for you.”
“File him under life’s too short,” Abby said. “Are you going to pursue this?”
“I am.”
“I wish you well.”
“You know who your replacement is?”
“No, but I’ll bet he’s a loudmouth,” Abby said.
“No bet,” Jesse said. “Want to have dinner some night?”
There was a pause. Jesse waited.
Then Abby said, “Of course I would. I have always felt bad about the way we, ah, ended.”
“Gray Gull?” Jesse said. “Tonight?”
Again the pause. Again Jesse waited.
“Absolutely,” Abby said. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Good,” Jesse said and hung up.
He leaned back against his chair and looked up at the ceiling for a time.
See if I can stay sober.
32
Simpson brought Kevin Feeney in with his mother and father. When they were seated in Jesse’s office, Simpson left and closed the door behind him. Kevin’s face was pale and he swallowed often. His freckles stood out starkly.
“Kevin says he doesn’t know why you arrested him,” Kevin’s father said.
He was a smallish man with thinning red hair and a somewhat unsuccessful mustache. Mrs. Feeney had long gray hair. Her flowered dress was large and shapeless.
“Actually,” Jesse said, “we haven’t arrested him. We have asked him to come in and answer some questions.”
“About what,” Mr. Feeney said.
His voice cracked a little. Jesse took a copy of one of the photographs from a folder and slid it across the desk. Candace’s face had been blacked out.
Mr. and Mrs. Feeney looked at the picture. Kevin did not.
Mrs. Feeney said, “Oh my God, Kevin, is that you?”
Mr. Feeney continued to stare at the picture. Jesse waited quietly.
After a time Mr. Feeney said, “Who’s the girl?”
Jesse didn’t say anything.
Mrs. Feeney said, “Kevin?”
Kevin looked at the floor.
“Kevin,” Mrs. Feeney said. “Who is that girl?”
Kevin kept looking at the floor. He shook his head.
Mrs. Feeney looked at Jesse. “Who is she? Why is her face blacked out?”
“No reason to humiliate her more than necessary,” Jesse said.
“But how can we help if we don’t know who she is?”
“Kevin probably knows,” Jesse said.
“Goddamnit, Kevin,” Mr. Feeney said. “Who is she? What’s going on?”
Kevin huddled up tighter into himself and stared harder at the floor. Both parents looked at Jesse.
“What’s going to happen?” Mrs. Feeney said to Jesse. “He’s not a criminal, you know.”
“We have a picture of him forcibly restraining a naked young woman who is crying,” Jesse said. “There’s probably a crime in there someplace.”
“How can you tell she’s crying,” Mrs. Feeney said.
“I’ve seen the full picture,” Jesse said. “Face and all.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Mr. Feeney said. “Should I get a lawyer?”
“You won’t need one until we arrest him,” Jesse said.
“Arrest?” Mrs. Feeney said. “How can you arrest him? He’s a child, for God’s sake.”
Jesse got up and walked around his desk and sat on the corner of it in front of Kevin.
“Who took the picture?” Jesse said.
Kevin stared at the floor.
“Did you rape this girl?” Jesse said.
Without raising his eyes, Kevin said, “I didn’t do nothing.”
Jesse let out an audible breath.
“This isn’t skipping school, Kevin, or smoking a joint,” he said. “This is jail time.”
“Oh my God,” Mrs. Feeney said. “Oh my God.”
“I say there are three of you,” Jesse said. “You holding her hands, somebody else taking the picture, and a third party, off camera, holding her feet.”
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“Do you know Bo Marino?” Jesse said.
Kevin nodded. He looked as if he might collapse in his chair.
“Did he take these pictures?”
“I don’t know.”
“We found them in his possession.”
<
br /> “I don’t know.”
“Was someone holding her feet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was holding her feet?”
Kevin began to cry.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know anything.”
“Don’t yell at him,” Mrs. Feeney said. “Leave him alone.”
Jesse nodded slowly.
“Okay,” he said. “Kevin Feeney, you are under arrest for sexual assault.”
“No,” Mr. Feeney said.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Jesse said. “Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.”
“Wait a minute,” Mr. Feeney said. “Wait.”
“You have the right to an attorney to assist you prior to questioning and to be with you during questioning if you so desire.”
“Don’t arrest him,” Mrs. Feeney said.
“There must be something we can work out,” Mr. Feeney said.
“If you cannot afford an attorney you have the right to have one appointed for you prior to questioning.”
“I don’t know a lawyer,” Mr. Feeney said.
“One will be appointed,” Jesse said. “Do you understand these rights, Kevin?”
Kevin was crying noisily.
“Am I going to jail,” he said.
“At least until a judge sets bail,” Jesse said.
“Mom,” Kevin said.
“Oh God, Kevin,” she said.
“If he tells you?” Mr. Feeney said.
“I might not arrest him.”
“Tell him, Kevin.”
“I can’t rat out my friends.”
“Do you want to go to jail?” Mr. Feeney said. “Tell him, for crissake.”
“They’ll be pissed at me,” Kevin said.
He was able to speak briefly, between sobs. Jesse picked up the phone.
“Molly, you or Suit come back here.”
Almost at once, Simpson opened the door.
“Take Kevin down to a cell and lock him up,” Jesse said. “Then call the public defender’s office, tell him the kid needs a lawyer.”
Simpson put a hand under Kevin’s arm.
He said, “Come on, kid.”
Kevin was crying loudly. Mrs. Feeney was crying just as loudly. Kevin’s father stood and leaned over his son.
Robert B Parker: The Jesse Stone Novels 1-5 Page 73
