“A lot of days with nothing to look forward to,” Jesse said.
“Behavior can be modified,” Dix said.
“In terms of drunks,” Jesse said, “I’m not sure that’s politically correct.”
“It’s not,” Dix said. “But it’s been my experience.”
“So I’m not fooling myself.”
“You may or may not be,” Dix said. “It’s possible that you’re not.”
“Day at a time,” Jesse said.
Dix smiled.
“Now,” Jesse said, “to my other problem.”
Dix waited.
“I’ve met a woman,” Jesse said.
Dix was still.
“Like the perfect woman,” Jesse said.
Dix nodded slightly.
“She’s good-looking, smart, very sexual. Even professionally—she’s a private detective. Used to be a cop.”
Dix nodded. It seemed to Jesse almost as if he were approving.
“She’s tough. She can shoot. She’s not afraid. And she’s a painter, too. Oils and watercolors, not houses.”
“Anyone else in her life?” Dix said.
“She’s divorced, like me, and she might still be a little hung up on her ex.”
“Gee,” Dix said.
Jesse grinned at him.
“Like me,” Jesse said.
Dix was quiet. The only window in the small room opened onto a budding tree against a blue sky. They looked almost like trompe l’oeil painting. When he was in this room with Dix, everything seemed remote to Jesse.
“Which is, of course, the problem.”
“She can’t let go of her ex-husband?” Dix said.
“I can’t let go of Jenn,” Jesse said.
“Because?”
“Two possibilities,” Jesse said. “I still love her, or I’m pathological.”
Dix smiled again without speaking.
“Or both,” Jesse said.
“The two are not mutually exclusive,” Dix said.
“But I feel like I love Sunny, too. That’s her name, Sunny Randall.”
“One can have feelings for more than one person,” Dix said.
“And how does one resolve those feelings,” Jesse said.
“If they need to be resolved,” Dix said, “one would talk to one’s shrink about them.”
“Well, something needs to be resolved,” Jesse said. “I can’t just live with both of them.”
“There may be other options,” Dix said.
“Like what?”
“We’ll have to explore that,” Dix said. “Is Jenn with anyone else at the moment.”
“Jenn is usually with someone else at the moment.”
“Are you attempting to be monogamous with Sunny?”
“We haven’t talked about that yet.”
“Is she with anyone else at the moment?” Dix said.
“I don’t think so.”
Dix was silent. Jesse was silent. The faux-looking trees stirred in the light breeze outside the window.
Then Jesse said, “Are you trying to inject a note of sweet reason into this discussion?”
“And me a licensed shrink,” Dix said. “How embarrassing.”
5
Molly Crane came into Jesse’s office as he was making coffee. She carried a yellow cardboard folder.
“Forensics report is in,” she said. “I organized it for you and put it in a folder.”
“You wouldn’t consider living with me, would you?” Jesse said.
“Maybe,” Molly said. “I’ll discuss it with my husband.”
She put the folder on the desk. Jesse poured water into the coffeemaker and turned it on.
“Any surprises?” he said.
“A little one,” Molly said. “They ID’d the body.”
Jesse sat at his desk.
“Anybody we know?” he said.
Molly smiled.
“Walton Weeks,” Molly said.
“The talk-show guy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jesse said.
“Can you say national media?”
Jesse nodded.
“Walton Weeks,” he said.
Molly nodded.
“Well,” she said, “if somebody had to go.”
“I never listened to him,” Jesse said.
Molly said, “I never agreed with him about anything.”
“Doesn’t make him a bad person,” Jesse said.
Molly smiled.
“No,” she said. “Come to think of it, I agree with my husband about very little, either.”
“Let’s not share any personal views with the national media.”
Molly drew herself to attention.
“Protect and serve,” she said.
“That would be us,” Jesse said.
He picked up the yellow folder and looked at the cover. Molly had labeled it WALTON WEEKS. Jesse sighed.
“It’ll be worse than the serial killings,” Molly said.
“The media? Yes, it will. This guy’s a national figure.”
“What was he doing here?” Molly said.
“Molly,” Jesse said. “I just found out who he is.”
“The question was rhetorical,” Molly said.
“For now,” Jesse said.
He opened the folder and began to read. Molly watched him for a moment. Then she went to the coffeepot, got two mugs, poured the now-brewed coffee into each. She put one mug on Jesse’s desk and took the other one with her to the front desk.
An orgy would sound boring, Jesse thought, if it was described in a forensics report.
White male, five feet eleven inches, two hundred three pounds. Appeared to be about fifty. Victim was overweight, and appeared out of shape. No evidence of a struggle. Abrasions on body appeared postmortem.
Probably when they moved him and strung him up.
Cause of death, three .32-caliber bullets. Any one of which would have done it. The victim had bled to death. Had been dead probably two days before the body was hung from the tree.
Nice call, Perk.
Fingerprint ID established that the victim was Walton Wilson Weeks, age fifty-one. Jesse wondered if they had estimated his age before they ID’d him. There was evidence of liposuction on his belly and buttocks.
Vanity, Walton—vanity, vanity.
The phone rang. It was Healy.
“Walton Weeks?” Healy said.
“So quick,” Jesse said. “I’m just reading the forensics myself.”
“I’m the homicide commander of the state police,” Healy said. “Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”
“Oh yeah,” Jesse said. “You know everything.”
“Walton Fucking Weeks?”
“Middle name is Wilson,” Jesse said.
“Walton Fucking Wilson Fucking Weeks?” Healy said.
“Yes.”
“Hanging from a tree limb in Paradise, Massachusetts?”
“Talk about a public figure,” Jesse said.
“He’s got a national television show,” Healy said. “A national radio show. A national newspaper column.”
“Is that as important as being a state police captain?” Jesse said.
“No. But it’s close. They’re going to swamp you.”
“Maybe not,” Jesse said.
“Weeks was a big supporter of the governor,” Healy said.
“The one who wants to be president?”
“Yeah. That one.”
“So he’s going to be all over this,” Jesse said.
“And me,” Healy said. “And you.”
“That’ll be an asset.”
“I’ll help you all I can, and I’ll keep him out of your way as much as I can,” Healy said.
“Explain to him about you being a state police captain,” Jesse said.
“I don’t know,” Healy said. “He might faint dead away.”
“Yeah,” Jesse said. “I feel a little woozy myself.”
“Everyone does,”
Healy said.
“Got any idea what Walton Weeks was doing around here?” Jesse said.
“Not yet.”
“Any other helpful things to tell me?”
“Hey,” Healy said. “This is your case. I don’t want to overstep.”
“Which means you don’t know shit,” Jesse said.
“Much less than that,” Healy said.
6
The smell of the harbor drifted into Jesse’s condo through the open French doors that led to the small balcony. Jesse carried a tall scotch and soda to the balcony. He stood and looked at the harbor. Darkness had begun to settle but had not yet enveloped. He could still see Paradise Neck across the harbor, and Stiles Island off the tip of the neck. He sipped the scotch. Faintly, to his left, he could hear the music and chatter from the Gray Gull restaurant on the town wharf. In the harbor a couple of the boats at mooring were lighted and people were having cocktails. He sipped his scotch. Cocktail hour. He was starting to feel centered. He thought about Sunny Randall. He’d see her this weekend. Walton Weeks permitting. There were worse things than being in love with two women. Better than being in love with none. Sunny was perfect for him. Jenn was not. Jenn was still the promiscuous, self-absorbed adolescent she was too old to be. She’d cheated on him in Los Angeles. She’d cheated on him here. Maybe it was time to stop believing the promises. He finished his scotch and made another. In the darkening harbor, a flat-bottomed, square-backed skiff was being rowed toward a big, brightly lit Chris Craft cabin cruiser. A man was rowing. A woman sat in the stern. He thought about Sunny naked. It pleased him, but it led him to think of Jenn naked, which led him to think of her naked with other men. He heard a guttural sound. Like an animal growling. It came, he realized, from him. With the drink in his left hand, he made a gun out of his right forefinger and thumb, and dropped the thumb and said, “Bang.” Below him, in the harbor, the tide was coming in. The rowboat was making slow progress against it. He drank some scotch. If Sunny committed to him, he knew she’d be faithful. They’d both be faithful. If he committed to Sunny. Which he wished he could do. But he couldn’t. What the hell is wrong with Jenn? Why is she like that? He shook his head and drank some scotch. Wrong question. Why can’t I let her go? Jesse’s glass was empty. He went for a refill. As he poured he looked at his picture of Ozzie Smith. Best glove I ever saw. He remembered, as he did every day, the way his shoulder had hit the ground one night in Pueblo, trying to turn a double play, getting taken out by a hard slide. I’d never have been Ozzie, but I’d have made the Show. He walked back to the balcony. The rowboat had reached the Chris Craft. It was empty now, riding gently at the end of a tether line. I’m a pretty good cop…except for getting fired in L.A….I been a pretty good cop here…if I don’t booze it away…I do booze it away, I’ll have to become a full-time drunk…I got nothing else I know how to do. Walton Weeks was going to be a hair-ball. He could feel it. Cameras, tape recorders, notepads, microphones, CNN, Fox, the networks, local news, Court TV, the Globe, the Herald, The New York Times. People, US, The National Enquirer…Reporting live from Paradise, Massachusetts, this is Every Prettyface. Ringling Bros., Barnum & Bailey. Jenn was an investigative reporter now. Not many weather girls made that jump. Jesse was pretty sure she had made it on her back. Walton Weeks would bring her out. He knew her. She’d be looking for an exclusive, an inside look, her special perspective. She’d use him if she could. He knew her. All he had left was being a cop. “I won’t let her,” Jesse said aloud. He drank, staring out at the harbor. There was no moon. It was too dark now to see the skiff. He held his glass up and looked through it at the still-bright light of the party boat. Pale amber. Clear ice. Thick glass. He took in some sea-scented spring night air. Last drink. Then I’ll make a sandwich. Maybe have a beer with it. Go to bed. He finished the drink slowly, standing in the dark on the balcony. He listened to the harbor water moving gently below his balcony.
“I won’t give her up,” he said.
Then he turned and went in and closed the doors behind him.
7
The reporters were gathered in a press tent in the parking lot in back of the Town Hall, to the side of the DPW garage. Several portable toilets had been set up. The equipment trucks had filled most of the parking lot behind the supermarket. More portable toilets. There was a press briefing scheduled each morning at nine a.m. in the Town Hall auditorium. Molly was to do the briefing.
“This is blatant sexism,” she said.
“You’re the only one I trust in front of the press.”
“How about you?”
“I’m the chief,” Jesse said.
“For crissake,” Molly said, “we have nothing to tell them.”
“True,” Jesse said.
“So what am I supposed to say?”
“Tell them we have nothing to tell them,” Jesse said.
“It may be weeks before we have anything to tell them,” Molly said. “What do I do up there every day?”
“Charm them,” Jesse said. “Wear the full gun belt, makes you look really cute.”
“You are a sexist pig,” Molly said.
“Maybe you could have your hat on at a rakish angle,” Jesse said.
“Fuck!” Molly said and left the office.
Suitcase Simpson came in with a notebook.
“What’s up with Molly,” Suit said. “I think she tried to bite me when I passed her in the hall.”
“Gee,” Jesse said. “I can’t imagine.”
Simpson shrugged.
“I got some preliminary stuff on Weeks,” he said.
Jesse said, “Okay,” and nodded toward one of the chairs.
“I’ll type this all up nice on the computer,” Simpson said. “But for now I’ll give you the, ah, salient facts.”
“You’re taking courses again,” Jesse said.
“Just one night a week,” Simpson said. “In a few years I’ll get my associate’s degree.”
“Onward and upward,” Jesse said. “Whaddya got that’s salient?”
“He was born in 1953 in Gaithersburg, Maryland. Went to high school there. Got a job after high school as a disc jockey, had a series of radio jobs, went to D.C. as a weatherman. Ended up with a talk show. Talk show got syndicated. And…you know. The rest is history. When he died he had a show on national cable two nights a week.”
“Walton’s Week,” Jesse said.
“Right, and five days a week on national radio,” Suit said.
“Walton Weeks: How It Is.”
“You listen to him?” Suit said.
“No.”
“He’s written a coupla books,” Suit said. “I ordered them online.”
Jesse nodded.
“He’s been married three times.”
“Was he married at his death?” Jesse said.
“Far as I know. Lorrie Weeks.”
“So where is she?” Jesse said.
“Haven’t found her address yet.”
“But why hasn’t she showed up here?” Jesse said. “It’s national news.”
Suit shrugged.
“How about the other wives?” Jesse said.
“Got names,” Suit said. “Haven’t found addresses yet.”
“Kids?”
“Not that I know about,” Suit said.
“Famous guy dies publicly, and no one shows up,” Jesse said.
“Not quite.”
“Somebody?” Jesse said.
“Bodyguard called in,” Suit said.
“Bodyguard,” Jesse said.
“Guy named Conrad Lutz.”
“Conrad did a hell of a job,” Jesse said. “You got an address for him?”
“Langham Hotel,” Suit said. “In Boston. He was there with Weeks.”
“Post Office Square,” Jesse said.
“I guess,” Suit said. “Molly told him to come in for an interview.”
“When?”
“ASAP,” Suit said.
“Press will swarm him,” Jesse said.
“But that’s what they do,” he said.
“You think Weeks was afraid of something?” Suit said. “You know, having a bodyguard?”
“He was a famous man who annoyed a lot of people,” Jesse said.
“Be good to know who they were,” Suit said.
“Maybe Conrad will know,” Jesse said.
8
Jesse,” the voice on the phone said, “it’s Daisy Dyke. I need you to come up here.”
“Business?” Jesse said.
“Yes, but could you come by yourself, like quiet?”
“Sure. I’ll walk over.”
“Thank you.”
When he went out of the station house, he had to push his way through the press.
“I’m going to lunch,” Jesse said.
He said nothing else and ignored all questions. It was a ten-minute walk to Daisy’s Restaurant. Three of the reporters tagged after him. Daisy met him at the door. She was a big, strong-looking woman with blond hair and a red face.
“We ain’t open yet,” she said to the three reporters. She let Jesse in and locked the door.
“I don’t know what to do,” Daisy Dyke said. “I figured I should talk to you first.”
“Okay,” Jesse said.
“There’s a woman in my Dumpster,” Daisy said.
“A woman,” Jesse said.
“She’s dead,” Daisy said.
Jesse took a deep breath and tipped his head back and stretched his neck.
“You know how she died?” Jesse said.
“God, no,” Daisy said. “But she’s got blood on her.”
“I’m going to have to look,” Jesse said. “And then we’re going to have to get her out of there. And then we’re going to have to…” Jesse spread his hands. “…investigate.”
“I know. I’m just worried about the fuckheads in the press ruining my business,” Daisy said.
“We’ll sneak as long as we can,” Jesse said.
“But eventually they’ll have to find out,” Daisy said.
“Day at a time,” Jesse said. “First, you take them some kind of nice snack, and let them sit at the sidewalk tables and eat it.”
“I made some rhubarb scones this morning,” Daisy said.
“Good. Give them that with coffee, and I’ll slide out the back door and look at the woman.”
The Jesse Stone Novels 6-9 Page 2