“No.”
“Phone?”
“Molly just said to find out why he was in the system,” Suit said. “Is this going to delay my promotion to detective?”
“Probably,” Jesse said and leaned forward and pulled the phone to him.
“You going to pursue the investigation yourself?” Suit said.
“I like to keep my hand in,” Jesse said and dialed 411.
It took two holds and one second phone call before Jesse was talking to the sergeant in charge of Precinct 9 of the Baltimore County Police Department in White Marsh.
“We busted Walton Weeks,” the sergeant said.
“Nineteen eighty-seven,” Jesse said, “public indecency.”
“For crissake,” the sergeant said, “what’d he do, wave his willy at somebody?”
“I don’t know,” Jesse said. “I thought I’d ask you.”
“Oh, oh,” the sergeant said. “A test of our record-keeping.”
“Anything you got,” Jesse said.
“Where’d you say you were from?”
“Paradise, Massachusetts,” Jesse said.
“Outside of Boston, right? Where Weeks got popped.”
“You read the papers,” Jesse said.
“And watch TV and listen to the radio,” the cop said. “Good luck to you guys.”
“Thanks.”
There was silence. Jesse could hear the computer keys tapping.
“New system,” the sergeant murmured.
“They’re all new to me,” Jesse said.
“Yeah,” the sergeant said, “ain’t that the truth.” More tapping.
“Shit!” the sergeant said. His voice raised. “Alice, will you come over and run this goddamned thing for me.”
Jesse heard a woman’s voice murmur in the background.
“Walton Weeks,” the sergeant said, “public indecency, 1987.”
The woman’s voice murmured again. The computer keys tapped. Jesse waited.
“Come on, come on, come on,” the sergeant said.
Jesse knew he was talking to the computer.
“Okay,” the sergeant said. “Here it is. Goddamn. Way to go, Walton.”
“What,” Jesse said.
“Got a couple of complaints at the White Marsh Mall. Officer went out and found Walton bopping some girl in the back of a Mercedes sedan.”
“How old was the girl?”
“Bonnie Faison,” the sergeant said. “Age nineteen.”
“What was the disposition?”
“We booked them both, and that was the end of it. Case got dismissed pretty quick.”
“Friends in high places,” Jesse said.
“Well,” the sergeant said, “it was a Mickey Mouse charge anyway. Damn arresting officer should have just shooed them away.”
“Once he brought them in…”
“We had to book them.”
“You know anything about the girl?” Jesse said.
“All I got is her address in 1987.”
“I’ll take it,” Jesse said.
27
Molly came into Jesse’s office with a woman. The woman wore a white tunic and black pants. Her black boots had three-inch heels. Her hair was black with a dramatic silver streak in the front. Jesse could sense Molly’s approval in the way she ushered the woman in.
“Ellen Migliore,” Molly said. “Chief Stone.”
Jesse stood. They shook hands. The woman sat down. Molly left the door open and departed.
“The first Mrs. Walton Weeks,” Jesse said.
“Yes,” the woman said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I live in Italy and I only recently heard about Walton.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Migliore,” Jesse said.
“Ellen, please,” she said. “I have been away from Walton too long for this to be painful. But I was married to him for five years and I liked him.”
Jesse nodded.
“What can I do for you, Ellen?”
“No, Chief, it’s what can I do for you?”
“Jesse,” he said. “That’s why you came here? From Italy?”
“Yes,” she said. “Genoa.”
“Do you have anything specific?” Jesse said.
“No,” she said. “I knew Walton a long time ago. But I knew him well, and I care. Are there funeral arrangements yet?”
Jesse nodded.
“Lorrie?”
“Yes, as soon as the ME released the body. It was a quick and private ceremony.”
“ME?” she said.
“Medical examiner,” Jesse said.
Ellen Migliore nodded and dropped her head for a moment and was silent.
Then she said, “Poor Walton.”
Jesse nodded.
“So alone,” Ellen said.
Jesse nodded.
“He was always so alone,” Ellen said.
“Always?”
“Probably always. Certainly when I knew him.”
“Even when he was with you?” Jesse said.
“With anyone and everyone,” Ellen said.
“Talk about that,” Jesse said.
He was back in his chair now, perfectly still, one foot propped, hands folded. Rain misted on the window behind him. In the month of May there had been five clear days.
“It was as if he knew a secret,” she said. “A sad secret that only he knew, and it kept him a little separate from everyone. He was somehow distant, even in the most intimate of moments, even with the most intimate of companions.”
“Like you,” Jesse said.
“Like me, like every other woman, like every other person.”
“What was the secret?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t even know how to ask him. He would have said there was no secret, that he wasn’t distant.”
“Maybe he would have been right,” Jesse said.
“No,” Ellen said. “He was distant. There was a silent space around him.”
“Maybe he was just an interior guy,” Jesse said.
“Like you,” she said.
“Me?”
“Yes. You are very interior, and there is a shield of silence around you, too.”
“But do I have a sad secret?”
“I don’t know you well enough,” Ellen said. “But if I slept with you for five years, I would know.”
Jesse smiled.
“Not the worst idea I ever heard,” Jesse said.
“I am too old for you,” Ellen said.
“No,” Jesse said. “You’re not.”
Ellen smiled and bowed her head slightly toward Jesse in acknowledgment.
“I always thought it was connected to the womanizing,” she said.
“Womanizing,” Jesse said.
“Yes. He was compulsive,” she said.
“You think he did it because of his, ah, secret?” Jesse said. “Or that it was his secret?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “What I do know is that no matter how many women he had, his aloneness remained visceral.”
“He was arrested outside Baltimore,” Jesse said. “In 1987, for public indecency.”
Ellen smiled sadly.
“No doubt with a young woman,” she said.
“Yes. In the backseat of a car in the parking lot of a shopping mall.”
“He liked young women,” Ellen said.
“How young did he like them?” Jesse said.
“Sometimes maybe too young,” Ellen said. “I don’t know. If that’s the only time he was caught, he’s very lucky.”
“Girl was Bonnie Faison, she was nineteen,” Jesse said. “Mean anything to you?”
“No. But I wasn’t with him by then. He was Stephanie’s problem in 1987.”
“Did he fool around when he was with you.”
“Jesse,” she said. “He could no more not fool around than he could not breathe. I don’t think it was really a choice for him.”
“So you assume he fooled around when he was with Stephanie?”
“Of c
ourse.”
“And Lorrie?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know Carey Longley?” Jesse said.
“The woman who died with him?”
“Yes.”
“No, but I can describe her. Quite young. Quite pretty. Quite amazed to be with a man like Walton.”
“She was young and pretty,” Jesse said.
“I’ve known a hundred of her,” Ellen said.
“She was also ten weeks pregnant,” Jesse said.
Ellen sat silently for a moment.
“With Walton’s child?”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” Ellen said, “my God.”
Jesse waited. As he watched, Ellen Migliore teared up.
“How awful,” she said. “To come so close, to finally come so close…”
“He wanted children?”
“Terribly,” she said. “At least during our time.”
“And you never had any.”
“No,” she said.
“Do you know why?”
“No,” she said. “We never sought medical advice. I guess we were each more comfortable assuming the other one was at fault.”
“Have you had any since?”
“Three,” she said.
“So you figured it was his, ah, fault,” Jesse said.
“I know, fault isn’t the right word, and by the time I was having my children, I wasn’t really thinking much about Walton—but yes, one would have assumed that he was the infertile one in our marriage.”
“Apparently neither of you were,” Jesse said.
“He never had children in either of his other marriages,” Ellen said.
“Maybe this time he got medical help.”
“That would not be the Walton Weeks I knew,” Ellen said.
“People change,” Jesse said.
“Not without help,” Ellen said.
“Psychiatric help?”
“Yes. And Walton would never consider it.”
Jesse smiled.
“Sometimes people change,” he said.
Ellen shrugged slightly.
“Or circumstances do,” she said.
“You think he needed shrink help,” Jesse said.
“The infertility thing bothered him,” she said. “And that distance-around-him thing, and…the womanizing. Yes, he needed help.”
“Do you know the other wives?” Jesse said.
“I’ve met them. I don’t really know them.”
“Do you know why he was in Boston?”
“No.”
“Do you know of any connection with Paradise.”
“Of course,” she said. “You don’t know?”
Jesse shook his head.
“He used to come here as a boy. His parents would rent a place every summer. He and his mother would spend the summers here. His father would come on the weekends.”
“Where was the house?” Jesse said.
“He said it was near the beach. Some college professor went to Europe every summer and rented his house out.”
“Did he ever come here later?” Jesse said.
“Not that I know of. But it was always, pardon the pun, a paradise lost for him. He always talked about it as if it were magical.”
“Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”
“No,” she said.
Jesse was quiet.
“But,” she said, “I’ll bet it was a woman, or about a woman.”
“Do you have an alibi for the time of his death?” Jesse said.
“I know you have to ask,” she said. “Yes, I have an alibi.”
“I haven’t told you exactly when he died,” Jesse said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ellen Migliore said. “I haven’t left Italy in five years.”
“And you can prove it,” Jesse said.
“Yes.”
“That should cover you,” Jesse said. “Do you have time to give us a statement today?”
“Of course,” she said. “Will there be any kind of memorial service for Walton?”
“Not that I know of,” Jesse said.
“How sad. Shuffled off the stage so quickly, and with so few trumpets.”
“He may not care,” Jesse said.
Ellen nodded.
“I’ll ask Molly Crane to take your statement,” Jesse said.
“Police chiefs don’t take statements?” she said.
“Police chiefs tend to screw up the tape recorder,” Jesse said.
“I’m not so sure,” Ellen said, “that I believe you’ve ever screwed up anything.”
“Maybe a few relationships,” Jesse said.
28
Some people,” Dix said, “find that they are infertile and are saddened but say, in effect, ‘We still have each other,’ and get on with their lives. Some adopt. Some fear infertility as a personal failure and refuse to be tested, or even admit to it. These people usually blame their partner.”
The office walls were bare white. There was a green couch against one wall. Jesse had never been on it. Through the window Jesse could see the treetops tossing a bit in the wind, and the gray clouds being pushed aside by the same wind. There was some blue sky showing.
Dix smiled briefly.
“It is these people,” he said, “whom we see most often.”
“And their partners,” Jesse said.
“Often,” Dix said. “I am not enthusiastic about couples counseling. But in some cases it seems effective. If more intensive therapy seems indicated, I refer one of them.”
“Is there anyone in Boston,” Jesse said, “especially famous for dealing with such issues?”
“Jonah Levy,” Dix said. “He’s a psychiatrist, in practice with a gynecologist named Frances Malloy, who probably knows more about the biology of infertility than anyone in the world, and a urologist named Edward Margolis, who would know more about infertility than anyone in the world if it weren’t for Frances.”
“They’d be widely known?”
“Very.”
“Nationally?”
“Worldwide,” Dix said.
“So it’s plausible that Walton Weeks might come up here to seek his help.”
“It is quite plausible,” Dix said. “Any fertility specialist in the world might well refer a difficult fertility case to Jonah. Particularly a high-profile one.”
“Because?”
“High-profile?”
“Yes.”
“Because Jonah is both very expensive and very discreet. One assumes Walton Weeks could afford him and would want discretion.”
“Do you know them?” Jesse said.
“I know Jonah.”
“If he was treating Weeks, and maybe Carey Longley, would he talk about it? Privileged communication and all?”
“Most doctors are guided by their patients’ best interests,” Dix said. “It would seem that Weeks’s best interest, and Longley’s, if she was a patient as well, would be served by talking about it.”
“Inasmuch as it might help solve their murder,” Jesse said.
“Inasmuch,” Dix said.
“That sounds pretty sensible,” Jesse said.
“Don’t believe that all-shrinks-are-crazy myth,” Dix said.
“Would a man who had unresolved emotional issues about fertility be likely to be a womanizer?” Jesse said.
“Such a man might keep looking for the woman who could conceive for him,” Dix said. “Or he might avoid women because he didn’t want to once again face his own failure.”
“Weeks was a womanizer.”
“Or he enjoyed sex,” Dix said. “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”
“If his first wife is correct, it was obsessive.”
“If so, maybe it was the fertility issue. Maybe he hated women. Maybe he loved them. Maybe he was trying to recreate the relationship with his mother. Maybe he was asserting his manhood for reasons unrelated to fertility. Maybe he was avenging himself on a wife. Maybe it was an interactive clus
ter of those things, or things we don’t even imagine.”
“Do I hear you saying we don’t know why Weeks was a womanizer?” Jesse said.
“You do,” Dix said. “Like many shrinks, I do better with one patient at a time with whom I have regularly spent time.”
“How disappointing,” Jesse said.
“Think how I feel,” Dix said.
29
You’re back,” Jesse said when Suitcase Simpson came into his office.
“Been eating a lot of crab cakes,” Suit said.
“They do that in Baltimore. Drink a little National Bo with the crab cakes?”
“Only while off duty,” Suit said.
He saluted with three fingers, like a Boy Scout. Jesse thought Suit seemed very pleased with himself.
“Do anything else?” Jesse said.
“I found Bonnie Faison,” Suit said.
“Really?” Jesse said.
“Yep. Wasn’t easy. But for a man with my crime detection instincts…”
“Was she still at the last address they had for her?” Jesse said.
“Yep. That Baltimore County cop went over with me.”
“Sergeant Franks,” Jesse said.
“Yeah, him,” Suit said. “She’s at the same place. She’s almost forty, got two kids and no husband, lives with her mother.”
“Sounds great,” Jesse said.
“Yeah. I don’t think anyone’s happy about it,” Suit said. “But there they are. Three-bedroom ranch, yard about the size of a pool table. Some sort of inbred dog looks like a hyena.”
“She remember the incident?”
“After a while,” Suit said. “She didn’t want to talk about it, but Franks sort of convinced her she had to or else.”
Jesse nodded.
“Tell you one thing,” Suit said. “I hope she looked better when Weeks was poking her.”
Jesse nodded again.
“Man, she’s so fat, I don’t think you’d know if you were in,” Suit said.
“Maybe she was better at nineteen,” Jesse said.
“I hope so.”
“How’d she meet Weeks?” Jesse said.
“She was hanging out at the mall, and picked him up after a book signing.”
“She the aggressor?” Jesse said.
“Sounds that way. Her mother said she just wanted to fuck a celebrity.”
“Maternal pride,” Jesse said.
“Her mother says she woulda fucked anybody she saw on television, before she got too fat.”
The Jesse Stone Novels 6-9 Page 8