Robert B. Parker's The Devil Wins

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “Old, I think.”

  “How many people were rowing, one or two?”

  “Two.”

  “Boys?”

  “Yes, boys. I’m not—”

  “How many people were on the boat?”

  “Four . . . no, five. I don’t know. I think I’m just making that up.”

  Szarbo opened his eyes.

  “Thank you,” Jesse said.

  “I don’t see how any of this helps,” Szarbo said. “The only thing I know for sure is having seen the boat rowing out to Stiles. The rest is . . . I don’t even know what to call it. Guessing?”

  Jesse offered Szarbo his right hand. After Szarbo shook it, he shook Molly’s as well.

  In the elevator on the way down, Molly seemed to have withdrawn even further into herself than she had on the ride to Boston.

  35

  Sitting there with the contents of Maxie’s bag spread out on the floor, a suffocating wave of panic overwhelmed him. Not guilt. Panic. He was faint, nauseated, breakfast forcing its way back up into his throat. He was sweating, too, through his shirt so that it was clinging to the lining of his sports jacket. He opened a window and sat back on his knees. He sucked in hungry lungfuls of cold air until he could push the panic back down. And when he’d gotten control of the nausea and the light-headed feeling had gone, he sat back against the wall. The icy air from the window hit the sheet of sweat on the back of his neck, giving him the chills.

  Killing Maxie had been easier than he anticipated it would be. How odd, he thought, given how he’d once been so obsessed with her that he could not get her out of his head. How at times he’d risked everything just to catch a glimpse of her from across the street or to smell her too-sweet perfume or to brush against her in passing during a “chance” encounter at the market. And God, when they finally got together—Maxie having approached him—it was like nothing he’d ever experienced, not before and not since. She had once been a fantasy to him. Then she was everything to him. But she just had to ruin it, pushing him too hard to do things he wasn’t ready to do. She was like that, always pushing for more. More was the only language she had seemed to understand. If she’d only been a little patient and let him get his legs underneath him, it might’ve worked. Patience wasn’t one of Maxie’s virtues.

  No, he was long past the guilt. Maxie’s blood on his hands was of her own making. If she hadn’t forced him away with her crazy demands, there might have been a future for them both, a way to see each other and still get on with their lives. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but Ginny’s vanishing the way she had had been a kind of blessing. It had gotten Maxie out of town and removed the dangling sword from over his head. But no, she had to come back, climb the ladder, and rehang the sword. That’s why it had been so easy to snap her neck, drive her farther up the Bluffs, and push her body down onto the beach. All the years of yearning and resentment were sufficient to make him want to end her, but when she degraded herself in front of him, calling him Loverboy—how could she do that after twenty-five years?—he wanted to rip her to pieces. How could she think he would want her? She was nothing but a pathetic old whore with her satin panties, stinking of perfume and desperation.

  He closed the window and crawled on hands and knees to where the contents of Maxie’s bag were laid neatly out; he went over each of them again as he had already done three times before. He turned her empty bag upside down and shook it so that his shoulders ached. Nothing. He turned the bag right side up, stared into it. Empty. He rubbed his latex-gloved palms along the inside of the bag, feeling for a hidden pocket, for a slight rectangular bulge, for something, anything. But again, there was nothing. No matter how many times he went through her things or searched her bag, he could not find the one missing letter. That damn letter, written in his moment of despair and pain, was the only thing that tied him to her. She had promised to bring it. All the others were there. Now they were gone forever. Shredded. Burned. Nothing more than ashes and smoke. But the one missing letter would be enough to ruin him and bring what little was left of his world crashing down around his head.

  He had been concerned about her cell phone, too, but those fears proved to be unfounded. Over the years, there had been the occasional late-night call to his house, the number blocked. When those calls went unanswered, no messages were left. When his wife picked up, the person at the other end would hang up. The number of calls had dwindled, averaging maybe one or two a year for the last five years or so. Maxie had an old-style flip phone and it was easy enough to scroll through her call records. He was relieved to see that none of her recent calls were to any of his numbers. He was even more relieved to see none of his numbers were listed in her phonebook. There was little doubt Maxie’s death would be declared a suicide, so it was unlikely the cops would dig into her phone records. And even if they did, so what? He could explain those calls away easily enough if he had to. Now her phone was history, too. Crushed beneath the wheels of his car, its pieces scattered along the road to Boston. No, it was that damned letter he had to worry about. That was on him.

  There was a knock at his door.

  “Give me two minutes,” he said, collecting the contents of Maxie’s bag and shoveling them back inside.

  “There’s someone here to see you.”

  “Two minutes,” he repeated.

  “Okay.”

  In a day or two, under cover of darkness, he would drive back up to the Bluffs and leave the bag in a nook between some rocks for the cops or a passerby to stumble on. In the meantime he slid the bag in a drawer and locked it. He sat at his desk for a few seconds, trying to regroup. It was only when he stood to open his office door that he realized he had been holding Maxie’s satin panties against the freshly shaven skin of his cheek. In that moment he realized both the depth of his obsession and hatred where Maxie Connolly was concerned. To be human was to be a contradiction. He threw her panties in the same drawer as her bag, but even as he did he knew he would have a much more difficult time leaving them somewhere to be found by a stranger.

  36

  Instead of stopping at the station, Jesse swung his Explorer toward the bridge to Stiles Island. Molly, who’d been silent during the ride back from Boston, took notice, sitting up in her seat, her head swiveling left and right.

  “What are we doing?” she asked, her voice strained. “Where are we going?”

  “That’s up to you,” Jesse said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do. I think you understood the minute Szarbo said there were boys and girls on that rowboat.”

  “He wasn’t sure about anything he said. You heard him.”

  “I did.”

  “I don’t—” Molly went quiet.

  “Where would they have taken the boat to, Molly?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “C’mon, Crane.”

  Her eyes got a faraway look in them. “Humpback Point, I guess,” she said, her lips turning up at the corners.

  “Where?”

  “No one calls it that anymore. It’s not there anymore. I mean, it’s there, but there’s a house on it now.”

  “Which house?”

  “The Sugar Cube,” she said.

  Jesse knew the place. Everyone on Stiles and in Paradise knew it. And owing to the fact that it had been featured on the cover of several magazines, people all over the world knew it, too. They called it the Sugar Cube because it looked like one. The only thing that broke up the white exterior was a continuous horizontal line of blue glass panels that ran around all four walls of the home. It was all very minimalist. There were no fencing, no stone walls around the property, no formal driveway, no formal landscaping to speak of. Just some well-kept lawn, a Japanese rock garden, a few pieces of abstract sculpture. The lot’s one signature outdoor feature was a twenty-by-twenty black stone square with a central fire pi
t surrounded by four long slabs of gray granite. There was a rectangular white marble pool and white cabana as well. Jesse thought it was pretty enough, but about as cozy as a mausoleum. The place was owned by a New York City architect who used it as a summer home and to impress potential clients. It had been closed for the season, the owner having notified local security and the Paradise PD that he wouldn’t be back until after Memorial Day.

  Jesse parked his Explorer on the shoulder of the road that ran past the north side of the property. He hopped out and waited for Molly to follow. She came around and stood next to him. The sun was up and strong, but no matter how strong the sun, it wasn’t the time of year to be standing on a finger of land sticking out into the Atlantic. The winds whipped cold sand into their faces.

  “Show me,” he said.

  “This way.”

  Molly walked across the road, through the straw-colored dormant dune grasses, over the low dunes and onto the narrow strip of beach that bordered that part of Stiles. She turned right and led Jesse to a V-shaped outcropping of rocks that nearly bisected the beach.

  “You could take a boat out here and tie it up,” she said. “And if it was dark, there was no way you could see a boat tied up here from the water. Then you could climb over the rocks.” She pointed. “See, the rocks kind of form a natural ladder. There wasn’t a paved road here back then, just a kind of a berm between the beach and the field. This lot didn’t used to be elevated the way it is now. When we were kids, the field sloped down below the berm.”

  “So passing boats couldn’t see anyone up here.”

  Molly nodded.

  “Was it called Humpback Point because of the berm?” Jesse said.

  She nodded again.

  Jesse said, “You smiled before when you called it Humpback Point.”

  “I did?”

  “You did. There was another reason you guys called it that. Emphasis on the hump in Humpback.”

  “You should be a detective,” Molly said.

  “Like you.”

  She smiled. “That’s just pretending.”

  “So kids came here to get high, drink, make out?”

  “Sometimes more than make out,” she said.

  “Did something happen to you here, Molly?” Jesse’s voice was low and serious.

  Molly looked up and saw the pained expression on his face.

  “Oh, no, Jesse, it wasn’t like that,” she said. “It was kind of awkward. I guess it always is, right? Was it like that for you?”

  He smiled at her. “Awkward doesn’t quite describe it. Quick and awkward is more like it.”

  She laughed. “With us it was really sweet and beautiful.”

  “It wasn’t your husband?”

  She clenched her lips together and shook her head. “I guess I hoped it would be, but I was a sixteen-year-old Catholic high school girl. What did I know about anything? But he was really sweet and gentle.”

  “Do you think Mary Kate and Ginny were on that rowboat and do you think they were coming here?” he asked.

  “We found their remains in the Swap, Jesse. That’s all the way off the island at the western end of town. And I think the cops searched the island after it was reported they were missing. Didn’t they?”

  “They did. Doesn’t mean they weren’t here or that they weren’t killed here.”

  “I guess not,” she said. “But . . .”

  “But what? Come on, Molly. You’re not that girl anymore. You’re a cop, the best one I’ve got.”

  “The killer crushed Ginny’s skull and he stabbed Mary Kate multiple times. That’s a lot of blood and a lot of deadweight to transport, even if they weren’t very big. How did he get them off the island and over to the Swap without anyone noticing?”

  “Good question.”

  Jesse’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked the screen. It was the ME. He looked over to Molly. “I’ve got to take this,” he said.

  Molly walked back down the beach toward Jesse’s SUV.

  “What you got for me, Doc?”

  “The proximate cause of death was a fractured cervical vertebrae, likely resulting from a violent fall. Several of her vertebrae were broken, so take your pick. As I suspected, she was pretty badly broken up internally. I am listing it as a probable suicide,” the ME said with some hesitation in her voice.

  “Probable. Why probable, Doc?”

  “It’s her panties.”

  “Her panties. What about her panties? Were they on backwards or something.”

  “That’s just it, Jesse. They weren’t on her at all.”

  “What?”

  “She met her maker commando-style,” Tamara said. “Takes all kinds.”

  “Let’s keep the missing panties between us, okay? Fax the report over.”

  “Already done.”

  “You up for a little more friendship tonight,” he asked.

  “As long as that’s what it is, sure. If you’re looking for love, you’re looking in all the wrong places.”

  “I got the message, Doc. You’re nobody’s right gal.”

  “Nice to meet a man who can handle his scotch and pay attention.”

  “I’ve never been flattered like that before.”

  “Call me later.”

  When Jesse got back to his Explorer, Molly had retreated back into herself and her past. He had some other questions to ask her, but let them slide. Molly’s debut as a detective had already been a tough one.

  He dropped Molly back at her house before heading to the station.

  “Take a little while, then get yourself back to the station,” he said.

  “In uniform?”

  “Up to you, but it will really get Suit crazed to see you dressed like that. I’ve let him play detective once or twice, too.”

  “That’s okay, Jesse,” she said. “I think I’ll get my uniform back on.”

  37

  He pulled up to the maintenance shed on the grounds at Sacred Heart Girls Catholic just as he had on the night the nor’easter blew into town. This time there was no flash and roar of gunfire, no need for him to back up into the delivery bay. No body for him to dispose of.

  “It would creep me out, working here. Doesn’t it ever get to you?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “Because the girls went to school here.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Sometimes,” he said, draining the oil from the old red tractor they used to plow the snow off the sidewalks in front of the school. “Mostly, I don’t think about it. I can’t afford to be choosy. With my record, I’m lucky I got a damn job at all.”

  “Which one of you shot Zevon?”

  He turned, looking over his shoulder at his visitor. “Who do you think?”

  “You?”

  “’Course. I didn’t like Zevon that much to begin with and I liked him even less that he came back to town. Besides, our other pal talks a good ball game, but underneath, Mr. Tough Guy’s . . . you know him. He was the one that caused all this shit to begin with. You know what he had the nerve to tell me at the Scupper the other night? That he didn’t even wanna go to Stiles the night we . . . you know, that night.”

  “I call bullshit on that!”

  “That’s what I said. You hear about Maxie Connolly?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Looks like she killed herself. Threw herself off the Bluffs, but that doesn’t mean you were wrong the other night. Our friend’s definitely a problem.”

  “He’ll be all right. You know how Alexio gets sometimes, all hot-blooded and crazy. We just got to keep him calm, hold his hand a little. That’s all.” He turned around again. “Come over here and help me with this filter a second. The guy who put it on didn’t lube it and then put it on so tight—”

  “Do it yourself. I’ve got to get back to my office. I can’t get dirt
y.”

  “No, that’s right. You don’t like getting dirty.”

  He ignored the dig. “It’s too late for hand-holding. Jesse’s already had a talk with him.”

  “With Alexio. Shit!” He dropped his wrench, sent it clanging against the concrete floor. “What? What happened?”

  “Alexio was in the Whaler Lounge at the hotel and Maxie Connolly walked in. First he hit on her and then he got all stupid, telling her how sorry he was about Ginny. A few hours later, she was dead.”

  “You don’t think Alexio—”

  “He didn’t. But Jesse Stone is smart. Alexio’s on his radar screen now and he’s not coming off it until the chief has somewhere else to look.”

  “Hey, don’t even think about putting Stone on me. I’ll give you—”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “How far would it get any of us to throw suspicion at you? No, we’ve got to think of a way to get Jesse to look someplace else. You think Alexio still has the knife from that night?”

  “Sure he does. You know how cheap he is. He’s still got his grandpa’s first nickel. He won’t sell fish to the tourists because he thinks it’s a waste.”

  “Okay, give me a day or two. I think I might have an idea of what to do.”

  “What should I do until then?”

  “Nothing. Not a thing. Finish changing the oil. Go about your job. Do what you always do. If Alexio calls, keep him calm and tell him we’ve got it all under control.”

  “Do we?”

  “Do we what?”

  “Have it all under control.”

  “Not all of it, not yet, but we will.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I’ve gotten us this far. Let me worry about it. Don’t call me unless it’s an emergency. I need time to set things up. I’ll be in touch when I’m ready.”

  “You got someone in mind?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay, then. You better get out of here.”

  He left without another word. He knew what had to be done, but in spite of his urge to just get it over with, he knew he had to keep his wits about him and wait for the right moment. Unlike that night on Stiles, he couldn’t let this spiral out of control.