Split Image

by Robert B. Parker

  "My father was a cop," Sunny said. "I was a cop. I been hanging out with a bad element all my life."

  Kennedy grinned.

  "So you don't give a fuck," he said.

  "I do not," Sunny said.

  "Anyway," Kennedy said. "Lotta people bought places they couldn't afford with mortgages they shouldn't have gotten, or got places they couldn't afford but thought they could flip when the price went up, and the prices didn't go up and they couldn't carry the payments. . . . You know."

  "I do," Sunny said.

  They went to the front door. Kennedy put his badge folder in his breast pocket so that the badge showed. Elsa Markham answered the door.

  "Hi," Kennedy said. "Detective Kennedy. I called earlier." Elsa nodded. She looked at Sunny.

  "Ms. Randall," she said.

  "Mrs. Markham," Sunny said. "This is Jesse Stone. He's the chief of police in Paradise."

  "Could you tell me what this is about?" Elsa said.

  "May we come in?" Kennedy said.

  "I am not required to let you in," she said, "unless you have some sort of document, I believe."

  "True," Kennedy said. "But it would probably go easier if we came in."

  "I'll decide that," Elsa said, "when I know what this is about."

  "Your daughter is missing," Jesse said.

  "I know that," Elsa said.

  "She's missing from the Bond of the Renewal group home," Jesse said. "Where she lived, in Paradise."

  Elsa was silent for a moment. Her face had a hard, sort of sick look, Jesse thought. As if she didn't feel well. Then she spoke.

  "You could have informed me of that by a phone call," she said.

  "We could," Jesse said.

  "But you chose to come here," Elsa said.

  "We did," Jesse said.

  "Phone call's kind of cold," Kennedy said.

  "They could have sent just you," she said to Kennedy. Then, turning back to Jesse: "Why did you and this woman come all the way out here?"

  "Thought you might be helpful," Jesse said.

  "I'm no longer responsible for her. She wants to shack up with some Jesus freak, I have no control over that."

  "You think she's shacking up?" Jesse said.

  "That would be her style," Elsa said.

  "Any idea which Jesus freak?" Sunny said.

  "None."

  "Has she done this before?" Jesse said.

  "What the hell do you think she's been doing in your stupid town for the last several months?" Elsa said.

  "Any other instances," Jesse said, "besides her adventures in Paradise?"

  "Drive through town," Elsa said. "Any long-haired, tattooed drug addict you see."

  "Many of those in town?" Jesse asked Kennedy.

  Kennedy grinned and covered up his Sherm tattoo with his right hand.

  "Not that many," Kennedy said.

  "Enough," Elsa said.

  Kennedy shrugged.

  "Is Mr. Markham here?" Jesse said.

  "John's at work," she said. "As he is every other weekday."

  "Industrious," Jesse said.

  "It costs a lot of money to be Elsa and John Markham," she said.

  "But worth it," Jesse said.

  "Every penny," Elsa said.

  "What does Mr. Markham do?" Sunny said.

  "He's senior vice president of marketing at Pace Advertising," Elsa said.

  "And Cheryl Markham?" Jesse said.

  "She has chosen not to live under our roof," Elsa said. "She wants to be on her own. Very well. She is on her own."

  "You've not heard from her," Jesse said.

  "I have not."

  "And you have no idea where she might be?" Jesse said.

  "I do not."

  "Or with whom?" Jesse said.

  "None."

  Jesse nodded. He looked at Sunny. She shrugged. He turned back to Elsa Markham.

  He said, "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Markham."

  She nodded and closed the door.

  They walked back to the Concord patrol car. They got in. Kennedy started it up and let it idle.

  Then he said, "Jesus Christ."

  "You notice she didn't ask us to let her know if we found her daughter," Jesse said.

  Sunny nodded.

  "She don't care?" Kennedy said.

  "Maybe she'll know if we find her daughter," Jesse said.

  "How would she know . . ." Kennedy said, and paused halfway through the sentence. "Because she knows where the kid is."

  "Might," Jesse said.

  Sunny nodded.

  "Which would mean she took the kid herself," Kennedy said.

  "Or arranged it," Jesse said.

  "You think they kidnapped their own daughter?" Kennedy said.

  "People do," Jesse said.

  "So, where is she?" Kennedy said.

  "No way to know," Jesse said. "Yet."

  "Why would they do it?" Kennedy said.

  "For her own good?" Jesse said.

  "Or," Sunny said, "because she's an embarrassment to them. Senior vice presidents have daughters at Wellesley."

  "Or we could be wrong," Jesse said.

  "We often are," Sunny said.

  "Well," Kennedy said. "I'll talk to the chief, but I would guess the best we can do is keep an eye on the house some. Case she's there."

  "And loose," Jesse said.

  "You mean she might be locked up?"

  "Might," Jesse said. "You know what she looks like?"

  Kennedy shook his head.

  "No," he said. "But I can probably get her picture from the high school."

  "If you do," Jesse said, "send me a copy."

  "Sure," Kennedy said. "Is there a license picture?"

  "No."

  "Parents don't have one?"

  "They claim not," Sunny said.

  "Shit," Kennedy said. "I got a hundred pictures of my daughter, and she's eleven months old."

  "But not missing," Jesse said.

  "Sometimes I wish she were," Kennedy said. "You got kids?"

  Both Sunny and Jesse shook their heads.

  "I wouldn'ta missed it," he said. "But it's hard on the wife." Sunny and Jesse both nodded. Kennedy put the car in gear, and they drove out of the Markhams' driveway.

  "Well," Kennedy said. "It could be worse. The house could have been foreclosed."

  Jesse nodded.

  "Yeah," he said. "That probably would have been worse."

  23

  JESSE SAT at his desk, reading the coroner's report on Knocko Moynihan. Cause of death was a nine-millimeter bullet in the back of the head. Like Ognowski. Except that Ognowski had been shot with a .22. Didn't mean they weren't related. Didn't mean they were. In fact, it didn't mean much of anything yet . . . except that they were both dead.

  From the front of the station Jesse heard a door slam and Molly yelling "Hey!" and heavy footsteps. He opened the drawer in his desk where he kept his gun. A huge man in a blue suit came through his door. He barely fit. Jesse guessed six-six and probably three hundred pounds. The suit was a little small for him. Behind the man came a smallish woman with big blond hair. Her dress was flowered and puffy at the shoulders. It was very short. Behind both of them, as they pushed into the office, was Molly. She had her gun out and at her side, pointed at the floor.

  "I don't know who this is, Jesse," she shouted from behind the big man. "He just pushed right past me and headed for your office."

  Jesse nodded.

  "Have a seat," he said.

  The big man squeezed into one of Jesse's visitor chairs. The woman sat beside him, with her ankles crossed as modestly as possible given the skirt length. Her shoes were black with an ankle strap and a high cork platform. In the doorway, Molly still had her gun out, but she held it behind the doorjamb so it was not obvious.

  The man said, "My name's Ognowski."

  His voice seemed to come from someplace cavernous.

  Jesse held up his hand.

  "First," Jesse said. "Some rule
s."

  "Rules?" the big man said.

  "My name is Jesse Stone. I am the chief of police here. This is my station house."

  "So?"

  "In my station house you do what my officers, particularly this one"--he nodded at Molly--"tell you to do."

  "This little girl?" the big man said.

  "Her, me, whoever," Jesse said. "You understand that rule?"

  "I go where I wish," the big man said.

  "You go straight to a cell, you don't calm down," Jesse said.

  The man stood slowly and looked down at Jesse.

  "You will put me in a cell?"

  Jesse took the gun from the drawer and pointed it at him.

  "Yes," Jesse said. "We will shoot you if we have to."

  The big man glanced back at Molly, who was also pointing her gun at him. Then he looked back at Jesse. He nodded once and sat back down. When he spoke, his voice had softened, but it continued to radiate power like a diesel generator.

  "You are not welcoming," he said.

  "Not yet," Jesse said.

  The big man nodded again, as if in agreement with himself. Jesse put the gun back in the drawer, but he left the drawer open.

  "You are a hard man," the big man said.

  "Of course I am," Jesse said. "I'm the chief of police."

  "I am a hard man, too," the big man said. "It is not a bad thing."

  "Sometimes it is a good thing," Jesse said.

  "My name is Nicolas Ognowski," the big man said. "I want to know who murdered my son."

  "We don't know yet, Mr. Ognowski," Jesse said. "I'm sorry for your loss."

  "When will you know?"

  "As soon as we can," Jesse said. "Who is this?"

  "Petrov's wife."

  "And your name?" Jesse said.

  "Natalya."

  Her voice was small. Or maybe everyone's voice sounded small in the context of Ognowski's.

  "My condolences, Mrs. Ognowski."

  She bowed her head silently.

  "We have very little evidence yet regarding the death of Petrov Ognowski," Jesse said. "Do either of you have anything to tell me?"

  "She does," Ognowski said.

  Natalya continued to look down at her lap, which was barely covered by her skirt.

  "Do you know something useful, Mrs. Ognowski?" Jesse said.

  She nodded. Jesse nodded toward the door where Molly still stood, her gun still out and hidden by the doorjamb.

  "Would you prefer to talk to Molly?" Jesse said.

  "She'll talk to you," Ognowski said. "Tell him now, Natalya."

  She blushed.

  "Another woman," Natalya said.

  "Do you know who?" Jesse said.

  Natalya shook her head.

  "Are you sure?" Jesse said.

  Natalya nodded.

  "Did you ever see her?" Jesse said.

  Natalya shook her head.

  "Did he tell you about her?"

  She shook her head again.

  "But you are sure he was seeing another woman," Jesse said.

  She nodded her head vigorously.

  "How did you know?" Jesse said.

  She didn't answer.

  "Tell him how you know, Natalya," Ognowski said.

  Natalya raised her eyes and looked straight at Jesse. Her face was red.

  "I am with him at night," she said. "We are doing love. And I am knowing I am not first person he do this with today."

  "How do you know?" Jesse said.

  "I know. I know like a voice saying in my head, he do this already today. I know."

  She looked hard at Jesse.

  "You understand?" she said.

  It seemed to matter to her that he did. He thought of how he had known that with Jenn. He did understand. He nodded slowly.

  "Yes," he said. "I do."

  She smiled faintly.

  "Did it happen more than once?" Jesse said.

  "Many," Natalya said.

  "But you don't know who?"

  "No."

  "Could it have been more than one?" Jesse said.

  Natalya looked at Nicolas Ognowski.

  "Petrov liked women," Ognowski said.

  "Doesn't mean it got him killed," Jesse said.

  "It is a clue," Ognowski said. "More than you had before we came."

  "True," Jesse said.

  "You will find him," Ognowski said. "Or I will. If I do, it will save you much trouble."

  "And if I warned you to stay out of it?" Jesse said.

  Ognowski stared silently at Jesse.

  Then he said, "Petrov was my only son."

  Jesse nodded.

  "Anything else you can tell me?" he said.

  "That is all we know," Ognowski said.

  "Where can I get in touch with you?" Jesse said.

  "I will get in touch with you," Ognowski said.

  He stood. Natalya stood as soon as he did.

  "You would not let me walk over you," Ognowski said.

  "No," Jesse said.

  "Many people do."

  "You have a lot of presence," Jesse said.

  Ognowski nodded.

  "It is a good sign that you would not," he said.

  When he left, Jesse walked to the front of the station with him and stood in the front door of the station and watched them get into a waiting cab. As it pulled away, Jesse took down the hack number of the cab. Then he looked at Molly.

  "Jesus Christ," Molly said, and holstered her gun.

  24

  IT'S FUNNY," Sunny said to Dr. Silverman, as they sat in Dr. Silverman's office. "I have such conflicting emotions when I come to see you."

  Dr. Silverman nodded almost imperceptibly. It was one of her nondirective "let's talk about that" signs.

  "I mean, I'm hoping to get well," Sunny said. "And I'm eager to find out more about myself. But I also hate to have to face some of what I find out. And I hate to have to admit it to you."

  Dr. Silverman nodded and waited.

  "But besides all of those kinds of conflicting emotions," Sunny said, "I am always eager to see what you're wearing."

  Dr. Silverman tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. It was her "tell me about that" sign.

  "You are beautiful, of course," Sunny said. "But you are also the most perfectly pulled-together woman I've ever seen."

  " 'Pulled together,' " Dr. Silverman said.

  Well, Sunny thought, she remains calm in the face of praise.

  "I mean, everything fits, and everything matches, and everything is appropriate," Sunny said. "It's not just pulled together. It's . . . You're very complete."

  Dr. Silverman nodded and waited again.

  "Or is all of that just transference?" Sunny said.

  Dr. Silverman smiled.

  "I hope not," she said.

  Sunny laughed.

  "It's not like I run around gushing to women friends about how complete they seem."

  " 'Complete,' " Dr. Silverman said.

  "You know, everything works. Competent. Contained. In control. The way you look is like a . . . like a symbol of how you are."

  Dr. Silverman nodded. Sunny was quiet.

  After a time, Dr. Silverman said, "Of course, you have no way of knowing how I am."

  Sunny stared at her.

  "Well," Sunny said, after a while. "I see you twice a week, and have for some time now."

  "And what do we always talk about?" Dr. Silverman said.

  Sunny was silent for a moment. Then she smiled slightly.

  "Me," Sunny said.

  Dr. Silverman nodded.

  "So why have I constructed this whole portrait of you based basically on how you look."

  "It might be interesting to know," Dr. Silverman said.

  They sat quietly.

  "Well, you are attractive," Sunny said. "And you're accomplished--you know, Harvard Ph.D. psychotherapist. Successful relationship?"

  Dr. Silverman didn't answer.

  "Of course," Sunny said. "It's about me, n
ot you."

  Dr. Silverman made a faint assenting movement with her head. Sunny sat back a little in her chair and looked at the ceiling while she thought.

  "So why do I need you to be the woman I described?"

  More silence. Then Dr. Silverman broke it.

  "Do you know any women like the one you've described?" Dr. Silverman said.

  "No," Sunny said. "Not really."

  "Do you know anyone like that?" Dr. Silverman said. "Male or female?"

  "My father," Sunny said. "And . . . I guess my ex-husband."

  There was more quiet.

  "My father," Sunny said. "And my ex-husband. There must be something pretty shrinky there."

  Dr. Silverman nodded without exactly agreeing. Sunny never quite knew how she stayed so noncommittal.

  "Are you that woman?" Dr. Silverman said.

  "Me?"

  Dr. Silverman nodded.

  "God, no," Sunny said.

  "Would you like to be that woman?" Dr. Silverman said.

  Sunny looked at the ceiling some more. Then she lowered her eyes and looked at Dr. Silverman.

  "Aha!" she said.

  25

  I TALKED to the cab company," Molly told Jesse. "They said the cabbie picked up Mr. Ognowski and his daughter-in-law in front of the Four Seasons Hotel in Boston, took them here, then back to the Four Seasons."

  Jesse nodded.

  "I called the hotel, and Ognowski's not registered there."

  "Call around," Jesse said.

  "Could be there under another name," Molly said.

  Jesse nodded.

  "Or he could be elsewhere and picked up a cab there because it was handy, or to confuse us."

  Jesse nodded.

  "I'll call around," Molly said.

  "Good idea," Jesse said.

  Molly started to leave. Then she stopped and closed the door and turned back to Jesse.

  "How are you?" she said.

  "That's not entirely clear," Jesse said.

  "You talk to that shrink?"

  "Dix," Jesse said. "Yes."

  "What does he say?"

  "He nods and says, 'Um-hm.' "

  "Which means?" Molly said.

  Jesse smiled.

  "I think it means, 'We'll talk about it some more,' " Jesse said.

  "You believe in that stuff?" Molly said.

  "Shrinkage?" Jesse said. "I'm hopeful."

  "You think it's helped you?"