Fool Me Twice js-11

by Michael Brandman

  Richard wore his black pin-striped Brooks Brothers suit well, but Jesse wondered why not even a single strand of his abundant salt-and-pepper hair was out of place. Had to be some kind of spray, he figured.

  Portia was a handsome woman who might once have been beautiful. But Jesse saw that her looks had been augmented by plastic surgery. Her lips were drawn tight, and her skin appeared as if it had been ironed.

  “May I offer you anything,” Jesse said as he stepped behind his desk.

  “I’d like some coffee,” Mr. Cassidy said.

  “Mrs. Cassidy?”

  “I’d like your head on a platter,” she said.

  Jesse looked at her.

  Then he called for Molly, who appeared in the office doorway.

  “Will you bring Mr. Cassidy a coffee, please,” he said.

  “How do you take it,” she said.

  “Black would be fine.” Molly left.

  “We’re out of platters,” Jesse said to Portia.

  “Don’t be impudent with me, Chief Stone,” she said.

  “Jesse,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “My name is Jesse.”

  “Can you believe this guy,” Portia said to her husband.

  “What brings you here,” Jesse said.

  “You know damned well what brings us here,” Portia said.

  Molly entered with the coffee and handed it to Richard.

  “Thank you,” Richard said to her.

  To Jesse he said, “I understand you’ve arrested Courtney again. Isn’t this all a bit much?”

  “Your daughter seems to delight in breaking the law and then flaunting it. Within a matter of days she’s become a three-time offender and appears to be either oblivious of that fact or proud of it.”

  “You’re harassing her,” Portia said. “You’re purposely singling her out.”

  Jesse looked at her.

  “You do know that she narrowly escaped with her life in a traffic accident that she caused,” he said.

  “Says you,” Portia said.

  “Please, Portia,” Richard said. “This won’t get us anywhere. What is it you want, Chief Stone?”

  “Your daughter needs some serious discipline.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that,” Richard said.

  “You’ve already lost that privilege,” Jesse said. “She’ll be judged by the court now.”

  “She’s seventeen years old,” Richard said. “She’s a minor. Nothing will come of this, I can assure you.”

  “The law is clear about the penalties attached to cell-phone usage while driving.”

  “And?”

  “At the very least, your daughter’s right to drive is going to be suspended.”

  “That’s a crock,” Portia said.

  “And because she’s a three-time offender, this office is going to petition the court to have her placed on probation.”

  “I’ve heard enough from this bastard,” Portia said as she stood. “I’m going after your head, Chief Stone. And you haven’t experienced the wrath of anyone like me before.”

  “Have you always had head issues, Mrs. Cassidy?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s the second time you singled out my head. I was just wondering if perhaps you had some kind of fixation.”

  “There’s no talking to this asshole,” she said to her husband.

  Richard Cassidy sighed.

  “I suppose this isn’t over,” he said.

  “You bet your sweet bippy it’s not,” Jesse said.

  22

  Jesse pulled his cruiser to a stop behind the orange-and-blue Water and Power truck that was parked on South Halsey Street.

  He got out of his car and leaned heavily against the front fender, facing the sun, hoping to acquire even the slightest suggestion of a tan.

  Oscar LaBrea appeared from the back of the house. When he spotted the cruiser, he headed to where Jesse was sunning himself.

  “You looking for me,” he said.

  Jesse continued to aim his face at the sun.

  “Here I live in a seaside community and have no color whatsoever,” he said. “I’m trying to rectify that.”

  Neither of them said anything.

  After a while, LaBrea said, “Was it me you were looking for?”

  “You Oscar LaBrea?”

  LaBrea was a big pasty-faced man in his mid-forties. He wore yellow overalls emblazoned with the DWP logo. He had on an expensive pair of Oakley sunglasses.

  “Am I in some kind of trouble,” he said.

  “Not at all. I’m Jesse Stone, by the way.”

  He extended his hand.

  “I know who you are,” LaBrea said, taking it. “Is there something you wanted?”

  “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  Oscar shrugged.

  “You read water meters for the DWP,” Jesse said.

  “For the past twelve years.”

  “Good job?”

  “I like it.”

  “Tough job?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How so?”

  “Restricted access. Dogs. Dissatisfied customers. That sort of thing.”

  “‘Dissatisfied customers’?”

  “On occasion,” LaBrea said.

  “What makes for a dissatisfied customer?”

  “I don’t know. People who think they’re paying too much. Who disagree with their bill.”

  “Why would someone disagree with a DWP bill?”

  “Any number of reasons.”

  “Such as?”

  “They don’t believe they used as much water as they were billed for. They think they’ve been overcharged.”

  “Are they ever right about that?”

  “Not often.”

  “Do people who disagree with a meter reading ever contact the department and challenge those readings?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What happens in a case like that?”

  “They’re wrong is what happens.”

  “Is it possible they could be right?”

  “Not likely.”

  “But possible?”

  “What is it you’re saying?”

  “That a meter might register higher amounts of water usage than what the customer actually purchased.”

  “Are you suggesting meter tampering?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” Jesse said. “I’m fact-finding, is all.”

  Oscar LaBrea stood silently for a while. Then he started walking toward his vehicle.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I think I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” LaBrea said.

  “Why not?”

  “I want to talk with my lawyer.”

  “Your lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why on earth would you want to talk with your lawyer?”

  LaBrea didn’t say anything. He opened the door to his truck and climbed in. He looked back at Jesse, then started the engine and pulled away.

  Jesse watched him leave.

  23

  The cocktail party honoring Marisol Hinton was just gathering steam when Jesse stopped by.

  A collection of actors, assorted movie brass, and several members of the staff and crew had been invited to the small gathering that Carter Hansen was hosting at Noah’s Ark, a colorful theme park of a saloon located on the Paradise waterfront.

  The locals referred to it as the “twofer bar.” Noah’s offered two drinks for the price of one; two appetizers, both soup and salad; two sides with each entrée; and a pair of desserts as well.

  The staff and crew had converged at the bar, taking advantage of Hansen’s largesse. Noah’s mojitos were very much in demand, but the prop mistress had seductively convinced the bartender to concoct several pitchers of Long Island iced tea, which were disappearing fast.

  The actors had taken over the buffet, treating themselves to hors d’oeuvres and wine. Noah’s shrimp boats, served two at a time, were
a big favorite.

  Selectmen Hansen, Comden, and Hasty Hathaway were among the celebrants. A handful of local merchants and other town luminaries were also there.

  Jesse saw Frankie Greenberg standing at one of the tables, beside Marisol, who was nervously scanning the room with eyes that reflected both tension and discomfort. She seemed taken aback by being the focus of so many of those in the room, yet at the same time she appeared needful of that focus.

  Marisol’s was a classic cinematic face. She had a prominent forehead, widely spaced large blue eyes, and sharply pronounced cheekbones. Hers was a ski nose, curling cutely upward at its tip. She had oversized lips and a notable jaw. Taken independently, her features seemed oddly incongruous. But seen through the lens of a camera, they coalesced perfectly, transforming her into movie-star beautiful.

  Frankie waved to Jesse, who picked his way through the crowd toward her.

  “This is who I was telling you about,” Frankie said to Marisol. “Jesse Stone, meet Marisol Hinton.”

  Marisol turned her blue-eyed gaze to Jesse.

  “So you’re the famous police chief,” she said.

  “Serving and protecting.”

  “Frankie said you used to be a cop in Los Angeles.”

  “I was a homicide detective.”

  “Homicide? You mean murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “A lot of that going around in Los Angeles.”

  “There is.”

  “Frankie said . . . I mean, I wonder . . .”

  Her voice trailed off.

  After an awkward pause, Jesse said, “What do you wonder?”

  Marisol shifted uneasily.

  “May I speak candidly, Chief Stone?”

  “Jesse,” he said.

  “Jesse,” she said. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s about my husband.”

  Jesse didn’t say anything.

  “My husband and I are estranged. He had become violent, and I couldn’t handle it any longer. So I changed the locks and threw him out. He still frightens me, though. I thought I’d be all right once I got here, but now I find that I’m not.”

  “He isn’t here in Paradise, is he?”

  “No. But I’m terrified that he might show up.”

  She looked at Jesse imploringly. Either she was actually frightened or she was an exceptionally good actress. Jesse wasn’t certain which.

  “He calls me a lot. At all hours. He keeps telling me how angry he is. He’s always yelling. I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Why not change your number?”

  “He’d still find me.”

  “How about I provide you with a secure phone,” Jesse said.

  Marisol looked at him.

  “‘A secure phone’?”

  “A special police phone.”

  “And you’d give me one?”

  “I’d lend you one.”

  “A police phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “For as long as you’re here.”

  “And the number would be private?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he couldn’t trace it.”

  “Correct.”

  “You’d actually do that?”

  “I would.”

  “That would be amazingly helpful,” she said, a smile appearing on her face. “I’d really appreciate that. I would be in your debt.”

  “That wouldn’t be necessary. Hopefully it’ll help ease your fears,” he said.

  Jesse looked over at Frankie, who eyed him apologetically.

  “I’ll see to it,” he said.

  He excused himself, shook Marisol’s hand, and as he left, he gave Frankie’s arm a barely noticeable squeeze.

  She smiled.

  Once outside, Jesse took a deep breath. He was about to jump into his cruiser when Suitcase joined him.

  “So what’s she like,” Suitcase said.

  “She’s frightened.”

  “Frightened?”

  “Of her husband.”

  “Ryan Rooney?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because?”

  “She says he’s become violent.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Exactly. I need you to do something, Suit.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to give her one of our encrypted cell phones.”

  “Marisol Hinton?”

  “Yes.”

  “One of our secure phones?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t they for departmental use only?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want me to give one to Marisol Hinton?”

  “A loaner.”

  Suitcase didn’t say anything.

  Jesse didn’t say anything.

  “You could get in trouble for this,” Suitcase said.

  “I’ll take my chances,” Jesse said.

  —

  Jesse was sitting in the living room, scotch in hand, when his cell phone rang.

  “What did you think,” Frankie said.

  “She’s very frightened.”

  “She has me worried.”

  “I can understand why.”

  “I’ve never seen her like this before.”

  “You might want to consider providing her with some personal security.”

  “We already have one of our officers assigned to her.”

  “I’m not talking about movie cops. I mean genuine security. More exclusive and more arduously trained than the average cop who services a movie set.”

  “Are you suggesting a bodyguard?”

  “I’m suggesting a tactical security officer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Someone highly skilled in the serious business of providing personal protection. A person with martial arts expertise, knowledgeable about weaponry and trained in the finer points of security.”

  “You know someone like that?”

  “I might.”

  “Would he be expensive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would the movie be responsible for paying him?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. But when I was in L.A., I knew a handful of qualified operatives whose job it was to provide protection services to top-tier movie actors. There’s always an obsessed clown or two out there who believes that it’s his or her destiny to marry some media star and who will stop at nothing to get next to that star. Think Madonna. Jennifer Aniston. David Letterman. All of them victims of deranged stalkers. It’s a whole lot more efficient to hire someone genuinely qualified to deal with these head cases than it is to leave it to some inexperienced rent-a-cop.”

  “I don’t know if we can even afford it.”

  “Let me see if the guy I’m thinking about is even available,” Jesse said. “Then you can worry about affording it. But I’ll bet you have a few bucks stashed away in one of your general accounts that you can surreptitiously latch on to.”

  “You’re smarter than you look.”

  “No one ever suffered from being underestimated,” he said.

  24

  How may I help you,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

  “No ‘How nice it is to hear from you,’” Jesse said.

  “It’s nice,” the voice said. “What do you want?”

  “You interested in a job?”

  “It depends.”

  “On?”

  “The job.”

  Jesse explained the job and the circumstances. And who it was that required his services.

  “Why me?”

  “Nobody better.”

  “You noticed.”

  “Be hard not to.”

  “Salary?”

  “Negotiable.” There was silence for a while.

  “So,” Jesse said.

  “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  —

  I’ll check to make sure he’s in,” Ida Fearnley said, somewhat less friendly than she was previo
usly.

  After several moments, she emerged from Commissioner Goodwin’s office.

  “He’ll see you,” she said.

  Jesse went inside. William J. Goodwin was standing behind his desk, all four feet seven of him.

  “Twice in one week,” he said. “That’s a record.”

  “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “What can I do for you now?”

  “I’m afraid I’m here for the same reason I was last time.”

  “Water rates?”

  “Yes. I had an unsettling conversation with one of your employees. Oscar LaBrea.”

  “Why would you be talking with Oscar LaBrea?”

  “Follow-up,” Jesse said.

  “Follow-up to what?”

  “To the conversation I had with you.”

  “You talked with one of our employees?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the issue of possible meter tampering hasn’t gone away.”

  “Meter tampering, is it,” Goodwin said.

  Jesse didn’t say anything.

  “You suspect this department of engaging in meter tampering?”

  “I don’t suspect anyone of anything. I’m fact-finding, is all.”

  “And what facts did you learn from Mr. LaBrea?”

  “Nothing specific, but I found his response to my visit unsettling.”

  “Oh?”

  “He became evasive, and at one point, he broke off the conversation and told me he needed to speak with his lawyer.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “That was going to be one of my questions to you,” Jesse said.

  Goodwin didn’t say anything.

  “Why do you suppose Mr. LaBrea said that,” Jesse said.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Why would he need a lawyer?”

  “I said I wouldn’t know.”

  “Is he a trustworthy employee?”

  “He’s worked here for twelve years.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Why would you ask me that?”

  Jesse didn’t respond.

  “Do you suspect me of something,” Goodwin said, drawing himself up to his full height.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because I don’t like the tone of your questioning.”

  “Mr. Goodwin,” Jesse said, “I’ve received complaints regarding possible irregularities at Paradise DWP. I’m here in response to those complaints. It’s part of my job. I’m simply trying to determine what happened.”