“And you always say it’s an ongoing
investigation and you can’t
discuss it.”
“I know.”
“I suppose they have to keep asking.”
“It’s sort of news
manufacturing,” Jesse said. “They do a stand-up in front of the police station and interview me, and ask me things like, have you caught the killer. And I say no. And they say, this is Tony Baloney live in Paradise, now back to you, Harry.”
Abby smiled.
“It’s not quite that bad,” she
said.
“I suppose not,” Jesse said.
“Sometimes they just ask if there
are any developments.”
“Are there?”
“Sure. We know that there were two
twenty-two-caliber guns
involved.”
“Two?”
“Un-huh. And we think he, she, or they drives a Saab sedan. And
we speculate that he, she, or they lives in Paradise.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Any connection among the victims?”
“Not that we can find.”
“You think the killings are random?”
“Don’t know. For all we know, he, she, or they had a reason to
kill one of the victims, and killed the others just to make us think it was random.”
“If that were the case,” Abby said,
“maybe the killings have
stopped.”
Jesse shrugged.
“Do you have a guess?”
“I try not to,” Jesse said.
“Sure, but you’re not just a
cop,” Abby said. “You are, after
all, also a person.”
“I’m better at being a cop. And
it’s best if cops don’t
hope.”
Abby was quiet for a moment. There was a break in the cloud cover and the moonlight shone briefly on the harbor, where the whitecaps were breaking, and the boats tossed at mooring. She sipped a little of the pear brandy. It was so intense that it seemed to evaporate on her tongue.
“I’m not so sure,” Abby said
after a time, “that you’re a better
cop than a person.”
“Lousy cop too?” Jesse said.
“No. You know that’s not what I
meant.”
“I know,” Jesse said. “Thank
you.”
They looked quietly at the foreboding whitecaps.
“I don’t feel good about breaking up with you the way I did,”
Abby said.
“You needed to break up with me,” Jesse said. “I am not really
available to anyone until I resolve all this with Jenn.”
“I know, but my timing wasn’t good. You were in trouble and I
…” Abby made a fluttery motion with her hand.
“It’s okay, Abby.”
She turned toward him and put her face up.
“It wasn’t okay,” she said and
kissed him hard with her mouth
open.
From a great distance, his ironic nonparticipant self smiled and
thought whoops! He kissed her back.
In bed she was urgent, and when the urgency had passed for both
of them, they lay side by side on their backs.
“Now it’s okay,” Abby said
softly.
“A proper good-bye?” Jesse said.
“I suppose so.”
“You’re still living with that
guy?” Jesse said.
“Yes … he’s out of town
tonight. Chicago.”
“You thinking of marrying him?”
“Yes.”
“You love him?”
“Oh God, Jesse, you’re such a fucking romantic.”
“I’ll take that as a no,” Jesse
said.
“He’s a nice guy.”
“You’re marrying him because
he’s a nice guy?”
“I’m marrying him because my clock is ticking fast, and he’s the
nicest guy I have found who wants to marry me.”
“You’re a practical person,”
Jesse said.
The overhead light was on in the bedroom, and as Jesse looked at
her naked body, he could see still a faint trace of sweat between her breasts.
“Most women are,” Abby said. “I
always get a laugh out of the
popular mythology about romantic women and practical men.”
Jesse nodded.
“It is sort of laughable,” he said.
“Would it bother him if he
knew?”
“Of course. But he’s no virgin and neither am I and we both know
it.”
“Do you feel like you’re cheating on him?”
“Yes, I guess so, a little.”
“But …”
“But you and I needed to be put to rest.”
“And this was it?”
Abby rolled onto her side and pressed her face against Jesse’s
chest.
“Yes,” she said. “This was
it.”
Jesse smiled and laughed softly.
“What?” Abby said.
“I’m the other guy,” Jesse said.
“The one I want to kill when
Jenn is with him.”
“Irony,” Abby said.
“You’ve always been a real bear for
irony.”
When she was dressed and her makeup was fixed and her hair was in order, Jesse offered to walk her to her car.
“I’m right in front of the Gray
Gull,” Abby said, “and besides,
it seems righter, somehow, if I kiss you good-bye here and go out the door.”
“Sure,” Jesse said.
They kissed, and when they were through, Abby turned and went out the front door without a word.
There were only a few cars in the parking lot. Abby was grateful
to get into her car and out of the wind. She started the engine and put it in gear and drove out of the lot. A red Saab sedan pulled out of the lot behind her. Both cars turned down Front Street.
35
She had been shot twice in the chest, as she got out of her car,
in the driveway of her house on North Side Drive, her body turned toward the back of the car, as if she had turned to see what was behind her. Anthony deAngelo had found her on routine patrol. She had fallen with the car door open, and one foot still caught on the edge of the car. Anthony had seen the car with its interior lights on and stopped to take a look.
“It’s Abby Taylor,” deAngelo
said to Jesse when he
arrived.
Jesse nodded. Dead people don’t look much different at
first, he thought. Just like live people except that they
don’t move. He stared down at her face. No, he
thought, it’s more than that. You look at them, there’s
something missing. Her position would have embarrassed her.
He
reached down and moved her leg and smoothed her skirt down. She was still flexible. Peter Perkins arrived with his crime-scene kit.
Suitcase Simpson was setting up lights. The ambulance pulled in.
Anthony was stringing the crime-scene tape.
“She live alone?” Suitcase asked.
“She lived with a guy,” Jesse said.
He was still looking absently down at the body.
“Nobody answering the door,” Simpson said.
“Or the
phone.”
“He’s in Chicago,” Jesse said.
Simpson stared at Jesse and started to speak. Then he didn’t.
One of the techs from the ambulance came over and knelt down beside Abby. He took her pulse automatically, t
hough he knew she was dead.
“Just like the other ones, Jesse,” the tech said. “Two in the
chest.”
“Her purse is still in the car,” Perkins said.
“Cold night,” the tech said.
“Make time of death a little
harder.”
“She died within the last hour,” Jesse said.
The tech looked up as if he were going to ask a question.
Suitcase Simpson put a hand on his shoulder. The tech glanced at him. Simpson shook his head. Perkins began to photograph the crime scene. A few neighbors had straggled out into the cold, coats on over sleep wear, hunched against the cold, staring aimlessly. Jesse was motionless, looking down at the body.
“You know where this guy might be in Chicago,” Simpson
asked.
Jesse shook his head.
“Anthony and I’ll ask a few
neighbors,” Simpson said. “Maybe
they’ll know. Or know where he works and the people at work will
know.”
Jesse nodded.
“Hate to just leave a note for him to call.”
“We won’t leave a note,” Jesse
said. “If you can’t reach him,
leave somebody here until you do.”
“What if it’s a couple days?”
Simpson said.
“Leave somebody here if you can’t reach him,” Jesse
said.
“Okay, Jesse.”
The other cops went about their crime-scene business very quietly. Like people in a sickroom. Jesse continued to look at Abby. After a while the EMTs loaded her onto a gurney and slid her into the back of the ambulance. Jesse watched them silently. The ambulance pulled away. Peter Perkins packed up his crime-scene gear and went to his car. Simpson and deAngelo finished talking to the neighbors.
“They told me he works at the GE in Lynn,”
Simpson said. “I’ll
call them in the morning. Anthony says he’ll stay here.
I’ll get
Eddie to come over in the morning and give him a break.”
“Do that,” Jesse said.
Perkins got into his truck and drove away. DeAngelo settled in behind the wheel in his cruiser in front of the house.
“I gotta get going, Jesse,” Simpson said.
Jesse nodded. Simpson shifted his weight a little.
“You, ah, gonna be all right?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” Simpson said.
He walked back toward his cruiser. And stopped and turned back toward Jesse.
“I’m sorry about Abby,” he said.
“Thanks, Suit.”
Simpson got into his cruiser, started it, and drove down North Side Drive. In the rearview mirror he could see that Jesse was still standing where he’d left him.
36
The Paradise selectmen called a special town meeting, which authorized a $10,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the killer or killers. A telephone hot line was established and the number publicized statewide. The Paradise police were working twelve-hour shifts, and the hot line was manned in the town clerk’s
office by off-duty firemen. A meeting room in the Paradise Town Hall had been converted to a press headquarters. Vans from the Boston television stations were parked in the public works lot behind the town hall, and almost every day a television reporter was doing a live report standing in front of the Paradise Police Station.
Police in Paradise are pressing their search today for the
killer or killers in a series of seemingly random murders that have terrorized this affluent North Shore community. In a news conference earlier today, Paradise Police Chief Jesse Stone said the full resources of his department, augmented by the Massachusetts State Police are being brought to bear on this investigation. But to this point the reign of terror continues.
Reporting live in Paradise, this is Katy Morton. Back to you, Larry.
That’s a tense situation up there, Katy.
Now to other news,
an heroic Siamese cat today …
Jesse shut off the television. With him in his office was a state police sergeant named Vargas.
“Jeez,” he said.
“Didn’t you want to know about that
cat?”
“I’ve got enough excitement in my
life,” Jesse said. “How many
people can you give me?”
“Captain says we’ll continue to help with the investigation, and
he wants to know what else you need. How many patrols you got out now?”
“Five cars, two shifts.”
“Ten people,” Vargas said. “How
many people you got on the
force?”
“Twelve,” Jesse said. “Including
me. Molly Crane covers the desk
days, and I stay here at night.”
“You’re swamped,” Vargas said.
“I’ll get some of our guys to
cover the night patrols. Captain says to tell you that we aren’t
taking this thing over. You’re still in charge of it.
I’m just
liaison.”
“You’ll need an office, and a
phone,” Jesse said. “You can set
up in the squad room.”
Molly came into the office without knocking. She was holding a business card. Her eyes looked heavy. She put the card on Jesse’s
desk.
“There’s a reporter from one of those national talk shows,”
Molly said. “Wants to interview you.”
“No,” Jesse said.
He didn’t look at the card. Molly smiled.
“He won’t like this,” Molly
said. “He’s kind of pleased that
he’s famous.”
“There’s a press briefing every
morning,” Jesse said. “Tell him
where and when.”
Molly nodded and went out.
“Press don’t like being
stonewalled,” Vargas
said.
“Who does.”
“They can say bad things about you,”
Vargas said.
“Who can’t,” Jesse said.
Vargas grinned.
“Don’t seem too media savvy,” he
said.
“My people are beginning to sag,” Jesse said. “How soon can we
get some patrol help?”
“Tonight,” Vargas said.
“Good,” Jesse said. “How close
is Healy to getting me a list of
people who’ve bought twenty-two firearms or ammo?”
“I’ll check,” Vargas said.
“Those records aren’t always
immaculate, and even if they were, people get guns from a lot of places.”
“I need whatever he’s got,”
Jesse said.
Molly stuck her head in the door again.
“Jenn,” she said, “on line one.
You want to take
it?”
Jesse nodded.
“Sit tight,” he said to Vargas.
“I’ll only be a
minute.”
He picked up the phone and punched line one and said,
“Hi.”
“Was that woman that got killed the one you used to date?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Jesse, I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” Jesse said.
“What’s up?”
“My news director and I had a fabulous idea,” Jenn
said.
Jesse closed his eyes and put his head back against his chair.
“Every news outlet in the country is dying for some sort of
inside something on this,” Jenn said.
“I know.”
“We thought because of our, ah, connection, you know? We thought
I could come out with a cameraman and track the investigation. An inside look at the workings of a police manhunt. We would stay out of your way. And when you catch the guy we’d have a whole series
about it, and maybe a special, and maybe we could sell it to one of the national outlets …”
“No,” Jesse said.
“Oh, I know, Jesse. Believe me I know what an imposition it is.
But we’d stay out of the way, and, Jesse, it would mean so much to
my career.”
Jesse still had his eyes closed and his head back.
In a soft voice, he said, “No, Jenn,” and put the phone back in
its cradle.
37
Chuck Pennington was an architect. He had been an intercollegiate boxing champion at Harvard and still looked in shape.
He must have been pretty good, Jesse thought.
There’s not a mark on his face.
He had thick black hair brushed straight back. He wore a rust-colored tweed jacket and a blue oxford shirt. He sat with Jesse in the living room of the house he’d designed, with his wife
and daughter and a lawyer named Sheldon Resnick. Molly Crane sat near the door. Through the glass back wall of the living room Jesse could look a long way out over the Atlantic Ocean. Mrs. Pennington was speaking.
“We wanted to spare you this,” she said to her husband. “We know
how important your work is.”
“My daughter is more important than my work,” Pennington said.
“But we can put that aside for the moment and listen to Chief Stone.”
“You promised to keep my daughter’s name out of this,” Mrs.
Pennington said.
“I did what I promised your daughter I would do,” Jesse
said.
“You spoke to her without me?” Mrs.
Pennington
said.
“It seemed the only way I could,” Jesse said.
“Sheldon,” she said. “I want you
to make that clear to this
policeman that we will not tolerate scandal.”
“Mr. Stone has been nice to me,” Candace said.
“Candace, you be quiet,” Mrs. Pennington said.
“No, Margaret,” Pennington said.
“You are the one that has to be
quiet.”
“Chuck …”
“This didn’t happen to you,”
Pennington said. “It happened to
Candace. It matters what Candace wants.”
“My God, Chuck, she’s
…”
Resnick put his hand on Mrs. Pennington’s forearm.
“Chuck’s right, Margaret. Now is not the time.”
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