Night and Day

by Parker, Robert B.

  “But you’re not going to speak to him,” Molly said.

  “Nope.”

  “And you’re not going to accuse him of anything,” Molly said.

  “Nope.”

  “And you’ll be very careful not to say anything to indicate that he’s suspected of anything,” Molly said.

  “Careful,” Jesse said.

  “But you’ll buzz around his life like a big green fly,” Molly said. “And drive him crazy.”

  “That’s my plan,” Jesse said.

  “And the Paradise Free Swingers?”

  “Maybe I can find a way to make things work better for the Clark kids.”

  She held her coffee cup in both hands in front of her mouth, watching the faint wisp of stream rise from it. Then she sipped some, and put the cup back down on the tabletop.

  “That’s diabolical,” Molly said.

  Jesse grinned at her.

  “There’s more than one way,” he said, “to squeeze a ’nad.”

  42

  IT WAS Wednesday night. Jesse sat with Suit in Suit’s truck, outside Seth Ralston’s condo.

  “So if you want him to know we’re watching him,” Suit said, “how come we don’t use a cruiser?”

  “I figure this way,” Jesse said, “we have two chances. He spots you and it inhibits him, and squeezes him a little more. He doesn’t spot you and you may be able to catch him in the act.”

  “Of what?” Suit said. “Peeping? I thought he’d moved on to his day job.”

  “We don’t know that he’s not night and day,” Jesse said.

  “Hell,” Suit said. “We don’t even know it’s him. All we got is that his wife works Wednesday nights.”

  “And he’s in a swingers group,” Jesse said. “And he likes to watch.”

  “Hell,” Suit said. “Just for the sake of discussion. Wouldn’t that be true of any member of a swingers group?”

  “That they like to watch?” Jesse said. “I don’t know.”

  “Well,” Suit said, “it sure don’t mean that you like to keep things private.”

  “True,” Jesse said. “It doesn’t have to be Seth.”

  “On the other hand,” Suit said, “who else we got?”

  Jesse smiled and nodded slowly.

  “There you have the essence of police work,” he said.

  “And there he is,” Suit said.

  Seth Ralston came out of the front door of his condo unit. He was wearing black pants and a white T-shirt. He had a Yankees cap on his head, and a dark windbreaker tied around his waist.

  “Making a foray?” Suit said.

  “Dressed for it,” Jesse said. “Put on the jacket, zip it up, and you’re all in black.”

  Ralston walked to the sidewalk and looked back at the truck. He paused. Then he turned and walked toward downtown.

  “Drive or walk,” Suit said.

  “One of each,” Jesse said.

  Jesse got out of the car and walked in the same direction as Ralston, on the other side of the street. Suit put the truck in gear and drove past Ralston. Ralston would probably make them, Jesse knew, if he hadn’t already. It was nearly impossible to tail somebody in a town the size of Paradise, with so little foot traffic. Still, it would crank up the pressure, maybe. And it was something to do.

  Ralston walked slowly along Front Street with the harbor on his right. He passed Suit’s truck, parked at a hydrant. He glanced at it but kept going. Jesse drifted along behind him. At the town wharf, Ralston turned and went into the Gray Gull. Suit pulled into the parking lot on the wharf and sat in his truck. Jesse went on into the Gray Gull and spotted Ralston at the bar. Jesse went to the other end of the bar and ordered a beer. He drank it slowly, while Ralston had a martini, paid, stood, and went out. Jesse left a bill on the bar and went out after him.

  With Jesse watching him and Suit circling slowly in the truck, Ralston walked back to his condo and went inside. Suit parked across the street. Jesse went over and got in the truck.

  “Is police work exciting,” Suit said, “or what?”

  “I think he was going out to peep,” Jesse said, “and spotted us and changed his plan.”

  “Or maybe he just wanted a drink,” Suit said.

  “Who do you know goes out at nine o’clock at night, walks to a bar, has one martini, and walks home.”

  “Most people I know drink beer,” Suit said. “But you got a point. It is like he was going out for another reason and changed his mind when he saw us.”

  “That’s my theory,” Jesse said.

  “Kinda thin,” Suit said.

  “Kinda?” Jesse said.

  43

  JESSE MADE himself a drink and sat at the bar in his living room to read the Night Hawk’s letter.

  Dear Jesse,

  I’m feeling trapped and desperate. No, not because of anything you’re doing (God! Small-town cops). . . . No, I feel trapped by my obsession. The struggle between my obsession and my self is the real struggle, not the pathetically unequal conflict between you and me. It’s not what you do or who you talk to. . . . It’s whether my obsession drives me to do things that I don’t want to do. It’s whether finally, to save me from my obsession, I allow you to catch me and put a stop to it. . . . But I worry that if that time comes, you and the other Keystone Kops won’t have the wherewithal to do it. One thing is certain: I will strike again, and you can’t stop me, and can never stop me . . . unless I arrange for you to stop me in order to stop my obsession . . . It should be interesting.

  The Night Hawk

  Jesse put the letter on the bar. He stood and carried his drink to the French doors and looked out at the harbor. He drank some scotch.

  It’s him, Jesse thought. He’s letting me know that it’s him. He knows I’ve talked to his wife. He knows we’ve had him under surveillance. “It’s not what you do or who you talk to.” He’s letting me know. I wonder if it’s conscious?

  Jesse had some more scotch.

  I wonder what it means that he called me Jesse? He’s getting more ragged, I can hear it in the voice in the letter. I wonder if he started out to go peeping, a deescalating step, so to speak. Maybe he’d been frightened by Gloria Fisher. Maybe he’s got to back up and start over and work himself up to it again.

  Jesse walked back to the bar and made another drink.

  The trick will be, Jesse thought, to put enough pressure on him to make him give himself away but not enough pressure to make him hurt somebody.

  He wondered if Dix could help. He knew one thing. Dix would draw the analogy. The Night Hawk was clinging to an obsession that he felt he couldn’t live without, and it was destroying him. Dix would direct Jesse’s attention to his own situation with Jenn.

  “It’s not exactly the same,” Jesse said as he walked back across his living room to look out at the harbor again. “But you don’t have to bend it too much to make it fit.”

  Everyone wanted him to give up on Jenn. As far as that argument went, everyone was probably right. He’d be better off without her. He was pretty sure that the Night Hawk wanted to stop being the Night Hawk. Except that he also didn’t want to give up being the Night Hawk.

  Jesse looked out at the harbor, except that he didn’t see it. What he saw was himself in the darkened glass. Not old yet, still in shape. The booze didn’t show yet.

  He’d had a lot of women. They had been, by and large, good women. Sometimes amazingly good, like Sunny Randall. And he’d liked them all, especially Sunny Randall. But they weren’t like Jenn.

  Jenn wasn’t good. Maybe that was her charm. Maybe what made their relationship so intense was the anger. Maybe when they did make love it was seasoned with rage, and the rage made it special.

  Maybe he was drunk.

  He walked back to get some more scotch. At the bar he made a new drink, and turned and looked back at the window where he’d been reflected and raised his glass.

  “Sooner or later,” he said aloud, “I’ll bust you.”

  He d
rank. And looked at the black window. Was he talking to the Night Hawk, or was he talking to himself? He felt sad for the Night Hawk. Sad for himself.

  “So what am I,” Jesse said, “a Day Hawk? How about a Night Eagle?”

  He laughed. It was a derisive sound in the empty room.

  “Night and day,” he sang, “I am the one.”

  He raised his glass toward the dark glass in the French doors that opened onto his deck.

  “Only me beneath the moon and under the sun.”

  He drank again.

  God, he thought, I’m drunk.

  He walked into the bedroom, where Jenn’s picture still stood on the night table by the bed. He looked at it for a moment and shook his head. Then he turned it facedown on top of the night-stand and drank some scotch.

  44

  JESSE HAD coffee with Sunny at the Gray Gull, which was now closed for renovation. They sat at the bar and watched Spike unload a large stainless-steel refrigerator from a truck and carry it the length of the restaurant.

  “Yikes,” Jesse said.

  “Spike is very strong,” Sunny said.

  “I would have guessed that,” Jesse said.

  “He looks like sort of a big lovable bear, and sometimes people misjudge that,” Sunny said.

  “That’s probably an error,” Jesse said.

  “Plus,” Sunny said, “he does some martial-arts training.”

  “Like he needs to,” Jesse said.

  “Plus, he’s really quite quick on his feet.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “If I ever have trouble with Spike,” Jesse said, “I think I’ll rely on gunplay.”

  “Use a big caliber,” Sunny said.

  Jesse grinned.

  “Besides,” Sunny said, “you won’t have trouble with Spike.”

  “Because I’m the chief of police?” Jesse said.

  “Because you’re my friend,” Sunny said.

  “You still painting?” Jesse said.

  “Not since Rosie died,” Sunny said.

  “But you will,” Jesse said.

  “I hope so.”

  “Might you buy a new Rosie?” Jesse said.

  “I don’t know,” Sunny said. “I invested so much time in her. I was married when Rosie was a puppy. . . . Now I live alone. . . . I don’t know.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “Richie’s wife have the kid yet?” he said.

  “Two more months,” Sunny said.

  “That does not bode well for your relationship,” Jesse said.

  “Hardly,” Sunny said.

  Jesse got up and went behind the bar and got the coffeepot and poured them both some more coffee.

  “Maybe it’s time to move on,” Jesse said.

  “You can say that to me?” Sunny said.

  “I know.”

  “For crissakes,” Sunny said. “You’ve been hanging on for years to an ex-wife who sleeps around.”

  “I know,” Jesse said.

  “And you’re telling me to move on?”

  “Maybe we both should,” Jesse said.

  Sunny leaned back on her bar stool and stared at Jesse. Then she smiled.

  “We do appear to be running out of options,” she said.

  “You still seeing that shrink?” Jesse said.

  “Dr. Silverman,” Sunny said. “Yes. You?”

  “I still talk to Dix,” he said.

  There was a half-pint carton of half-and-half on the bar. Jesse added some to his coffee and stirred in sugar. Sunny had her coffee black, with Splenda.

  “You know about my Peeping Tom house invader,” Jesse said.

  “Calls himself the Night Hawk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pathetic, isn’t it?” Sunny said. “The B-movie, comic-book names some of these guys come up with to make themselves seem heroic?”

  Jesse nodded.

  “He writes me letters,” Jesse said.

  “Oh,” Sunny said. “One of those. I had a guy like that.”

  “Spare Change Killer?” Jesse said.

  “You followed the case,” Sunny said.

  “As much of it as the media got right,” Jesse said.

  Sunny shook her head.

  “Poor jerk . . . like so many of them, an obsessive loser. But he did such damage.”

  “They do,” Jesse said. “My guy less than yours. He hasn’t killed anybody. But . . .”

  “He might,” Sunny said. “But even if he doesn’t, those women he’s forced to strip will not be quite the same again.”

  “No,” Jesse said.

  “So why are we talking about this?” Sunny smiled. “You need help?”

  “Probably,” Jesse said. “But here’s this guy doing something to make himself feel good, and it makes him feel bad. But he can’t give it up.”

  “That’s why we call it obsessive,” Sunny said.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Jesse said. “But what strikes me is that we’re doing the same thing.”

  Sunny nodded slowly, thinking about it.

  “Our efforts to be happy make us unhappy,” she said.

  “And yet we keep at it,” Jesse said.

  Sunny nodded some more.

  Then she said, “That’s why we call it obsessive.”

  “And maybe that’s why we should stop doing it,” Jesse said.

  “If we can,” Sunny said.

  “We can,” Jesse said.

  “We almost made it once before,” Sunny said.

  “Remember the dress shop in Beverly Hills?” Jesse said.

  “In the changing room?” Sunny said.

  “Standing up?” Jesse said.

  “I think standing up doesn’t do it justice,” Sunny said.

  “We were amazingly agile,” Jesse said.

  “Maybe we can regain that agility,” Sunny said.

  “I hope so,” Jesse said.

  45

  THEY WERE in the squad room.

  “There was another Peeping Tom reported,” Molly said.

  “Wednesday night,” Jesse said.

  He looked at Suit.

  “Never moved out of his house that I could see,” Suit said.

  Jesse looked back at Molly.

  “I went down and talked with her,” Molly said. “She looked out of her bedroom window, saw him standing in her backyard. Same outfit. All black, baseball cap. She yanked her shade down, yelled for her husband. Husband ran out into the backyard, but the guy was gone.”

  “What does the victim look like?” Jesse said.

  “Tall, blonde, maybe fifty-five, maybe more.”

  “Different than the people he photographed,” Suit said.

  “The peeping is probably pretty much a matter of opportunity,” Jesse said. “The photography he plans ahead.”

  “Could be a copycat,” Molly said.

  “It’s him,” Jesse said.

  “You know that how?” Suit said.

  “It’s him,” Jesse said. “He’s retrenching.”

  “Retrenching?” Molly said.

  “Backing up and starting over,” Jesse said. “Building his nerve back up.”

  “I was sitting out front of his condo when the peeping happened,” Suit said. “He never came out.”

  “By the front,” Jesse said. “He spotted us out front the other night.”

  “I know,” Suit said. “So after Moll told me about the peeping incident, I went back there and looked around. And of course there’s a back way out. From the cellar. Through the parking lot in back, some trees, and there’s the railroad tracks. Run right on to Sea Cliff Station. Then Preston, and downtown. He’d be free and easy walking along there.”

  “Well,” Jesse said, “he’s back in business.”

  “And at a less intrusive level,” Molly said.

  “The level will escalate,” Jesse said.

  “Higher than before?” Molly said.

  “Maybe,” Jesse said. “Poor obsessive bastard.”

  “Poor bastard him?” Molly sa
id. “How about the women?”

  “Them too,” Jesse said.

  Molly said, “I don’t know how you can . . . Oh.”

  “Anyway,” Suit said. “Gives us a better shot at him. If he keeps doing it long enough, we’ll catch him.”

  “He’ll keep doing it,” Jesse said. “He has to.”

  “Be good if we could catch him before it gets too escalated,” Molly said.

  “The amount of escalation will depend on the amount of resistance he encounters,” Jesse said.

  “You mean if a woman puts up a struggle?” Molly said.

  “Pressure builds,” Jesse said. “And there’s no release. . . .” He shrugged.

  “What if we blanket him with surveillance?” Molly said.

  “I don’t have the people for it,” Jesse said. “Front, back, on foot, twenty-four hours a day, it would take the whole department.”

  “I’ll bet some of the guys would work overtime,” Molly said.

  “Our job is to police the town,” Jesse said. “Which means the whole town. Not just the Night Hawk. We still have to control traffic and answer burglar alarms and nine-one-one calls.”

  “How about we search his place,” Suit said. “We know there’s physical evidence. The gun he uses on the home invasions, the digital camera. There’s probably a ton of pictures on his computer.”

  “There’s not a prayer we could get a warrant,” Jesse said.

  “I might slip in without one, unofficially, of course.”

  “Suit,” Jesse said. “We already know it’s him. We need to be able to prove it, and any evidence you got while B-and-E-ing his pad would be useless to us, probably forever.”

  “Damn,” Molly said. “This guy is committing crimes regularly. We know it. We know who he is. We know he’s going to keep doing it.”

  “And we can’t do a fucking thing about it, excuse me, Moll,” Suit said.

  “Clean up your fucking language,” Molly said.

  All three of them laughed, glad to break the tension they’d been building.

  “So what do we, for crissakes, do?” Suit said.

  “We await developments,” Jesse said.