Robert B. Parker's The Devil Wins

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  Jesse bought Dragoa’s story as far as it went, then asked, “Did you know Ginny?”

  “Small town, Chief. It was smaller back then.”

  “That’s not much of an answer.”

  “I was older than her, but I seen her around school. Everybody knew everybody.”

  Jesse didn’t ask a follow-up. He let the silence speak for him. He looked out the glass doors at the wind chopping the water, thought of Maxie’s body at the base of the Bluffs. Silence could often be more effective than threats, even with the men like Dragoa, but the fisherman seemed determined to say not another word. Jesse finally broke the quiet.

  “So what did you figure was going to happen between you and Maxie when you approached her? That you were going to get a room together?”

  “I don’t know what I figured. I wasn’t thinking with my head. I had a few in me.”

  Jesse asked, “And what did you say about Ginny?”

  Dragoa got that look on his face again, like just before and when the cigarette fell out of his mouth. “I said I was sorry about what happened to her.”

  “Why should you be sorry? I thought you said you didn’t know her.”

  “That was a bad time in Paradise, Chief. Bad for everybody. People think my poppa and me, we don’t care about nothing. I care.”

  Dragoa took a mouthful of bourbon. Went to light a cigarette. Jesse grabbed the lighter out of his hand.

  “Not in here.”

  Alexio asked, “What happened to her, anyways?”

  “In a minute,” Jesse said. “Where’d you go after you left the Whaler?”

  “Helton.”

  “Why’d you drive all the way over to Helton?”

  “I got a room with somebody didn’t mind getting a room with me,” Dragoa said.

  “A hooker?”

  “Yeah. I ain’t married no more.”

  “How long were you with the hooker?”

  “All night. I paid for the night. Drove straight to the Rainha this morning.”

  “What motel?”

  “First you tell me what happened to Maxie.”

  “A jogger found her at the base of the Bluffs early this morning.”

  Dragoa bowed his head. “That’s too bad,” he said. “How?”

  “She either jumped or was pushed off.”

  “You think it was me?” Dragoa snorted. “Wasn’t me. I was at the Helton Motor Inn from about eleven o’clock on with a blonde called herself Trixie. Go check.”

  “I will.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “Finish your drink,” Jesse said.

  “Nah, I don’t feel like drinking no more.”

  With that, Dragoa stood and drifted out of the Gull. Jesse watched him go. He would check the fisherman’s alibi, but Jesse didn’t think he was lying. Still, there was something about Dragoa that didn’t sit just right.

  33

  Darkness had settled over Paradise by the time he got back to the station, but it wasn’t dark enough to hide him from the press gathered outside. Jesse waded through them without bothering to say “No comment.” A TV type Jesse recognized from a national morning show stood in his path and shoved a microphone in his face.

  “Do you think Maxie Connolly’s death is connected to the other murders?”

  Of course it is, you idiot. It’s connected whether Maxie committed suicide or was herself murdered. It’s not a question of if, but of how.

  “No comment” is what Jesse said, then gave the correspondent his coldest stare, the stare he used to give pitchers who had thrown at his head. The TV guy withered under it, stepping out of Jesse’s path. Jesse made sure none of the reporters followed him into the station.

  “Everything confirmed for tomorrow in Boston?” Jesse asked Suit.

  “He’s expecting you around ten o’clock at his office.”

  “Heard from the ME?”

  “I checked. She says sometime tomorrow.”

  “You’re getting good at this, Suit. I don’t know. I may have to keep Molly on the street permanently even after the town doctor clears you for active duty.”

  Suit slumped in his chair. “Just kill me now.”

  “Relax. I was kidding.”

  “Don’t kid like that, Jesse. I’m going nuts in here.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Molly’s in your office and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “I don’t know if this is legit or not, Jesse, but I got a call from a guy who says he might be able to help us ID our John Doe.”

  “Let’s get him in here.”

  Suit waved his palm back and forth. “This guy sounded a little crazy to me. You want to waste your time with some nut?”

  “We haven’t had any luck otherwise. Get him in here.”

  “That’s the other thing.”

  “Suit, come on. Don’t make me pull teeth.”

  “He lives in some weird little town in Arizona. Diablito, he said. Says he saw the story on the news. He says he recognized the tattoo.”

  “Name?”

  “Wouldn’t give it to me. Said he would only give it to my superior officer.”

  Jesse shook his head.

  “See what I mean, Jesse?”

  “Okay. Give me his number and I’ll call him.”

  Suit handed him a slip of paper that Jesse put in his back pocket as he headed for his office, where Molly was pacing a rut in the floor.

  “What’s up?” Jesse asked, sitting himself down in his chair.

  “You smell like cigarette smoke.”

  “Compliments of Alexio Dragoa. We had a talk.”

  She made a face. “Him? What did you have to talk about with him?”

  “He says he knew Ginny Connolly. That the town was smaller then. That all you kids knew each other. True?”

  Molly shrugged. “I guess so. Twenty-five years ago we weren’t as connected to Boston. People didn’t commute to work from here like some do now. We were more of our own town. All of us kids knew each other or knew of each other. Like I said, Jesse, Paradise was a different town then.”

  “But you can’t say definitively about Alexio and Ginny?”

  “I was best friends with Mary Kate, not Ginny. I didn’t keep track of Ginny the way I did with Mary Kate. What did you talk to Dragoa about?”

  “Seems he was one of the last people to see Maxie Connolly alive. Forget about Alexio Dragoa for now. Let me ask you something, Molly, how many times were you interviewed by the cops when the girls disappeared?”

  “Three times, I think. Once by Freddy Tillis and twice by the staties. Isn’t it in the files?”

  “Tell you the truth, the file’s pretty spotty. Looks like they interviewed just about every kid in town, but none of the interviews went anywhere and there wasn’t any follow-up to speak of. Seems like the Paradise PD bought into the theory that the girls actually ran away.”

  Molly made a face.

  “Words, Crane. What’s with the face?”

  “Freddy was a nice man, but he wasn’t much of a cop,” she said. “Even as kids we knew that.”

  “That’s what Healy says.”

  “I guess I can’t blame people in town for wanting to believe that Ginny and Mary Kate ran away. It’s easier to live with that thought than that one of your neighbors is killing teenage girls. And there was no evidence of foul play back then.”

  Jesse took it all in. As off balance as Molly had seemed to him since the discovery of the three bodies, this was the Molly he had come to rely on. Her assessment was honest and untainted by her closeness to the case.

  “I’ll pick you up at your house at eight-thirty tomorrow morning,” Jesse said, changing subjects. “We’re going to Boston to interview Lance Szarbo.”

  “Who?”


  “He’s the one witness who claimed he saw the rowboat heading out to Stiles the day the girls disappeared.”

  That got Molly’s attention. “He was blasted, wasn’t he?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Are you sure it’s worth the trip, Jesse?”

  “Won’t know until we speak to the man. You just said that Freddy wasn’t much of a cop, and by the look of the file I’d have to agree. And because we don’t have much else to go on.”

  “Okay,” she said without much enthusiasm and headed for the office door. Jesse called after her. She stopped, turned. “Yeah, Jesse.”

  “Don’t wear your uniform.”

  “What should I wear?”

  He said, “Not your uniform.”

  “That’s not very helpful.”

  “Dress like a detective.”

  “How does a detective dress?”

  “I have faith in you, Molly. You’ll figure it out.”

  “I thought the Paradise PD couldn’t afford detectives.”

  “If we could, you’d be one.”

  “What would the job pay?”

  “Not enough. Go home and get some rest. Be with your family.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. Anything else?”

  He smiled. “Your Highness . . . I could get used to that.”

  “Don’t.”

  Jesse took the slip of paper Suit had given him out of his pocket, looked at his watch, and dialed. The phone rang six times before someone picked up.

  “Diablito Motel. Paco speaking.”

  Jesse introduced himself. Titles didn’t seem to impress Paco, nor did Paco seem to know anything about a guy calling the Paradise PD earlier in the day. The only thing Paco seemed interested in was getting off the phone.

  “Where is Diablito?” he asked, sensing Paco’s impatience.

  “Between Tubac and Nogales.”

  “East or west of I-19?”

  “Towards Sasabe,” Paco said, testing Jesse.

  “So you’re west of 19.”

  “How you know that?”

  “Grew up in Tucson.”

  “Me, too,” Paco said with a big smile in his voice.

  “So can you help me out here, Paco?”

  “Wait a second.”

  Jesse held on.

  “A call was put through to your number from Cabin Twelve this afternoon. Lasted about seven minutes.”

  “What’s the guy’s name?”

  “John Smith,” Paco said. “We get a lot of Smiths and Gonzaleses in here.”

  “I bet. Can you put me through?”

  “I can, but it would do no good. He split. Checked out a half hour after the call.”

  “Can you tell me anything about this Mr. Smith?”

  “Ex-military, I think. Tattoos everywhere, some from prison.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I been in both,” Paco said without hesitation. “Trust me. I know.”

  “How was he?”

  “Loco with a big L. Looking for enemies under the mattress and in the mirror. Paid me in pennies and crumpled-up singles. I was happy to see him go.”

  After he hung up with Paco, Jesse put in a call to the Helton police chief. Jesse figured it was the Helton PD’s turn to have a chat with a motel deskman.

  34

  Jesse didn’t get into Boston much anymore since Jenn had left for good. When he did make it into the city, it usually wasn’t to visit people who kept suites in glass-and-steel office towers. He wasn’t sure how often Molly got into Boston. Probably about as often as she wore a gray blazer, black slacks, and black pumps. Though she was very pretty dressed that way, her curves less well hidden than in her uniform and winter jacket, she seemed utterly uncomfortable. Jesse thought she looked like a woman with a thousand itches to scratch but no idea where to start.

  They hadn’t exchanged ten words before they got into the elevator at 111 Huntington Avenue. It was Molly who spoke first.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll talk,” Jesse said. “You listen, observe. If you have any questions, ask them. Don’t ask too many. You’re here to unnerve him.”

  Molly smiled in a way she hadn’t since before the nor’easter. “I’m the bad cop.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The elevator opened up directly into the offices of Commonwealth Colonial Capital, Inc. The receptionist sat at a green granite kiosk, the company logo—a triangle of three interlocking frosted-glass C’s—displayed on the matte black wall behind her. After a minute of false pleasantries, they were shown to Lance Szarbo’s office.

  Thin, hazel-eyed, and silver-haired, Szarbo was a handsome man of fifty-five, unashamed to display the perks of wealth. From his Patek Philippe watch to his hand-tailored suit to his custom-made shirt and shoes to his perfect and square white smile. The three walls of glass behind his desk offered a panoramic view of Boston.

  Szarbo asked, “So how do you like the view?”

  “Impressive,” Jesse said.

  Molly was cool. “All that glass must make it tough to hang pictures.”

  “Yes,” Szarbo said, head tilted. “I confess to never having thought of it that way.”

  Jesse struggled not to laugh and asked, “What sort of firm is Commonwealth Colonial?”

  “Venture capital, but I don’t believe you’re here with a business plan to beg funds. Please sit,” he said, gesturing at the chairs that faced his desk. “Can I get you something to drink? Some coffee or tea, perhaps? Water?”

  Jesse said, “Nothing. Thank you.”

  Molly shook her head, barely acknowledging their host.

  “So you’re here about the missing girls,” Szarbo said. “I’ve been keeping up. Terrible thing about the one girl’s mother killing herself that way.”

  “It’s not officially a suicide,” Jesse said.

  “Makes sense, though, doesn’t it?” Szarbo asked.

  Neither Jesse nor Molly reacted. Instead, Jesse removed a folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket. He waved it at Szarbo and then placed it in front of him.

  “That’s a copy of the statement you gave the police twenty-five years ago,” Jesse said. “Take a minute to read it over.”

  Szarbo did as he was asked, muttering parts aloud. “Yes,” he said, looking up. “That’s about it. I wish I could have been more helpful, but as you are no doubt aware, I was several sheets to the wind at the time.”

  “Celebrating?” Jesse asked.

  “I suppose I was, yes. I was doing mostly real estate investment back then and I had just gotten the news that my first considerable deal was going to pay off rather handsomely.”

  Jesse said, “This was in Paradise?”

  “Stiles Island. Until that time, the island wasn’t much to speak of. There were several old, larger houses scattered around the island, but no real community. A group of fellow investors and I supplied the funds for the first meaningful development. By May of that year, all the plans had been approved and the permits issued. So a few of us in the investment group decided to go to Paradise on the Fourth of July to celebrate.”

  Molly said, “But you were the only one looking out the window of the restaurant?”

  “I can’t say, Detective Crane. I can only tell you what I saw.”

  “And what was that?” Jesse asked.

  Szarbo gave an impatient look at his visitors. “You read the statement.”

  “Many times, but humor me, Mr. Szarbo. I’ve been at this a long time. Sometimes when you speak about the past, new details come to light.”

  “I was staring out at the island because that deal meant a lot to me and you know how you get when you’re so hammered. You just fix your gaze and you don’t even re
alize it. Well, in any case, it was dark, but the marina was lit up and I think there was a full moon. I might be misremembering that, but I seem to recall being able to see pretty well in spite of the dark. There were a lot of motorboats out on the water to watch the fireworks. A little while after the fireworks ended, I noticed—”

  “How long after?” Jesse said.

  Szarbo shrugged. “Ten minutes, a half hour, an hour. Who knows? I had no sense of time by then. I can’t even tell you how long I was staring out at the island. I was so hammered that I hadn’t even noticed that the woman I’d come with had taken a ride back to Boston with one of the others.”

  “Go on.”

  “After the fireworks had ended, I caught sight of a rowboat headed toward Stiles Island.”

  “How do you know it was headed toward Stiles?” Molly asked. “Couldn’t it have just been in the harbor like all the other boats, there to watch the fireworks? Then when the fireworks were over, it was circling back to the mainland?”

  “No. No. It was definitely headed directly toward Stiles.” There was no doubt in Szarbo’s words or in his voice.

  Jesse said, “In your statement you mentioned that the rowboat was low in the water and that the people in it were kids.”

  “What I said was that there were a few kids in an overcrowded boat rowing out toward Stiles Island.”

  “Kids?” Jesse asked. “How did you know they were kids?”

  “I don’t know that. They just seemed like kids. To say anything else would just be speculation.”

  “Boys? Girls?”

  “Both, I think,” Szarbo said. “I can’t be sure. Again, I don’t know why I think that. Look, Chief Stone, you have all of this—”

  “Just a few more questions and then Detective Crane and I will be out of your hair.”

  Szarbo looked relieved.

  “Close your eyes and try to picture the rowboat. Just focus on the boat, not the people on it, not on the water, not on anything else.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just answer quickly. Don’t think about it. What did the boat look like?”

  “It was too dark, Chief Stone. I’m sorry.”

  “Was it old or new?”