The Jesse Stone Novels 6-9

by Robert B. Parker

  “How do you know,” Jesse said.

  “Tom Nolan.”

  “You’re friendly with him.”

  Stephanie smiled again.

  “Yes, I am,” she said.

  “How’s Tom’s staying power?”

  Stephanie smiled widely.

  “Sufficient,” she said.

  Jesse smiled with her.

  “How come you didn’t tell me all this stuff when we talked before?” he said.

  “In front of all those people?”

  He nodded.

  “What else is there?” I said.

  Stephanie drank the rest of her martini. She hadn’t yet eaten any of her salad.

  “He left me ten thousand dollars in his will,” she said.

  “Old times’ sake,” Jesse said.

  “He left ten thousand dollars to Ellen, too.”

  “And the rest?” Jesse said.

  Stephanie was looking for the waitress. When she saw her she gestured with her empty glass.

  “Lorrie,” she said.

  “How much?”

  “Thirty million, give or take. Plus the whole Walton Weeks enterprise.”

  “Is that worth anything without Walton?”

  “There’s always Alan.”

  “TV, radio, the whole thing?” Jesse said.

  Stephanie ate a bite of her salad. The martini came. She turned her attention back to it.

  “I don’t know. You’d need to ask Tom about that.”

  “Nolan, the manager,” Jesse said.

  “Yes, and Sam.”

  “Gates? The lawyer?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Nothing in the will about Carey Longley,” Jesse said.

  “No.”

  If the martinis were affecting Stephanie, she showed no sign of it. Except that she had slowed down on the third one, interspersing a sip with the ingestion of salad. The hotel coffee shop was not a place of lingering luncheons, and most of the tables had emptied.

  “Do you know Conrad Lutz?” Jesse said.

  “I’ve heard the name. He was Walton’s bodyguard, wasn’t he?”

  “He wasn’t with Walton when you were?” Jesse said.

  “No.”

  “Do you know any reason,” Jesse said, “why Walton would need a bodyguard?”

  “Well, he annoyed some important people, certainly. But, no, not really. When I was with him he never seemed to need one.”

  “Who would,” Jesse said.

  42

  I thought I’d ask Sam to sit in with us,” Tom Nolan said.

  “If you think you need a lawyer,” Jesse said.

  “I’m an entertainment lawyer,” Sam Gates said. “If we were concerned about criminal matters, I wouldn’t be the one.”

  “It’s just that I know Walton’s business from one side,” Nolan said. “And Sam from the other.”

  “Sure,” Jesse said. “What’s the future for Walton’s business now?”

  “We plan to carry forward with Alan,” Nolan said.

  “Hendricks?” Jesse said.

  “Yes. The enterprise will still be called Walton Weeks, but now it will be Walton Weeks, with Alan Hendricks.”

  “The market will bear that?” Jesse said.

  “Yes. Alan has sat in for Walton in the past. People like him. We’ll market it as the legacy renewed.”

  “So the beat goes on,” Jesse said.

  “Of course there’s only one Walton Weeks,” Nolan said. “But yes, the enterprise will continue.”

  “And this was predictable?”

  Nolan looked at Gates.

  “Predictable?” Gates said.

  “If I told you last winter that Weeks would die, would you have known that the, ah, enterprise would survive?”

  “Well, of course, no one was thinking about that last winter,” Gates said. “Walton was not an old man. He was in good health.”

  “But if you had thought about it?” Jesse said.

  “I assume we would have concluded that the franchise was still viable,” Gates said.

  “That would, of course, have been up to Mrs. Weeks,” Jesse said.

  “Of course,” Gates answered. “She being the sole heir.”

  “And she’s in Hendricks’s corner,” I said.

  “She thinks Alan would be a suitable replacement,” Gates said.

  “Would it have been apparent that she thought so six months ago?” Jesse said.

  “What are you getting at?” Nolan said.

  Jesse smiled and shrugged.

  “I’m just floundering,” Jesse said. “You know, small-town cop in over my head.”

  “I’m sure you’re doing your best,” Gates said.

  Jesse looked grateful.

  “So did Lorrie and Alan get along okay?”

  “Yes,” Nolan said. “Of course.”

  “How well?” Jesse said.

  Nolan looked away.

  Gates said, “Are you implying something?”

  “To imply something,” Jesse said, “you have to know something. I’m just trying to learn.”

  “I doubt that either Tom or I could speak to their private lives,” Gates said.

  “And the question of how well did they get along,” Jesse said, “is about their private lives?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Gates said.

  “How about Lorrie and Walton?” Jesse said.

  Nolan looked at Gates again. Gates was silent.

  Then he said, “You’re a pretty good small-town cop.”

  Jesse smiled.

  “Well,” he said. “I am the chief.”

  Gates nodded.

  “How were Mr. and Mrs. Weeks getting on?” Jesse said.

  “May we be off the record here?”

  “No,” Jesse said. “I won’t talk about anything to the press. But if I have evidence, I will share it with the DA.”

  “But no press.”

  “Not from me,” Jesse said.

  Gates nodded again. Jesse waited.

  “Walton asked me to refer him to a divorce lawyer,” Gates said.

  “He did?” Nolan said.

  No one paid him any attention.

  “When?” Jesse said.

  “Three months ago.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes,” Gates said.

  “Who?”

  “I believe that would be covered by privilege,” Gates said.

  “No doubt,” Jesse said. “Of course, the client is murdered and I’m trying to find who did it.”

  Gates nodded. “That would be a consideration,” he said.

  Jesse waited.

  “Esther Bergman,” Gates said.

  “She here in the city?”

  “Yes. Hoffman, Dalton, and Berks,” Gates said. “Downtown.”

  “Did he consult her?” Jesse said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was Mrs. Weeks aware?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The three men were quiet for a time in Nolan’s penthouse office.

  “What effect would a divorce have had on the enterprise?” Jesse said finally.

  Nolan looked at Gates. Gates nodded.

  “None, would be my guess,” Nolan said. “Walton was a name brand. He’d been divorced before. I don’t think it would have had any effect.”

  “And on the former Mrs. Weeks?” Jesse said.

  “Lorrie?” Nolan said. “I suppose that would have depended on the settlement.”

  “But she would be unlikely to remain an heir.”

  “Unlikely,” Gates said.

  43

  Jenn’s apartment was clean, but it wasn’t neat. Clothes were scattered about. The dirty dishes and scattered crumbs of a small and hurried breakfast were in the kitchen. There was a chaos of makeup in the bathroom and a wet towel wadded on the floor near the shower. Sunny smiled.

  Running late this morning.

  In the bedroom, on the bureau, was a big picture of Jesse. He was hatless and the s
un was full on his face. Sunny looked at the picture for a time. Then she went back to the living room and sat at the little painted writing table with French legs that Jenn appeared to use as a desk. There was a phone on the desk and a laptop computer, open, the screen lit. Sunny opened the address book at the bottom of the screen. There were a lot of addresses. Jesse’s e-mail address was there. And so was tpat@cybercop.com, which when she clicked on it proved to be Timothy Patrick Lloyd.

  That was easy.

  The smell of Jenn’s perfume was strong in the apartment. The place was expensive and, Sunny thought, a little overdecorated.

  Well, I’m here. I might as well learn what I can.

  She opened the drawer in the writing table. It was like most people’s desk drawers. Pens, paper clips, papers that weren’t necessary but couldn’t be thrown away yet, a ruler, a box of notepaper, some scissors, a roll of stamps. In the small second drawer was a checkbook and some bills. Systematically, Sunny went through the apartment. In a drawer in the buffet in the dining area, she found a photo album/ scrapbook. There were pictures of Jenn and Jesse at their wedding. There were several different pictures of Jenn with several different men, one of whom was a recognizable actor. There was a picture of Jesse, very young, in a baseball uniform. And a clipping from the newspaper about Jesse’s part in the capturing of two serial killers in Paradise several years ago. There were pictures of Jenn on air, and publicity head shots of her. There were also two pictures of Jenn, in a bikini, with Timothy Patrick Lloyd, on a beach somewhere.

  Sunny took the two pictures and put them in her purse. She went through the rest of the album. There were no family pictures in the album. No one who appeared to be a parent. No pictures of Jenn as a child. Sunny put the album back. In Jenn’s bedroom closet was nightwear from Victoria’s Secret. The lingerie in her dresser drawer had been selected for appearance far more than comfort. Sunny smiled to herself.

  The medicine cabinet had a partly used package of birth-control patches. The makeup was expensive and showed thought. The perfume was very good. The hair products were mostly what Sunny used. The hot-roller device was the same one Sunny had.

  She’s not that different. Looks good. Wants to look better. Nothing remarkable, except she’s a liar.

  Sunny stood for a few moments in the silent living room and looked around. The apartment was new and stylish, and clean and careless and ordinary and still. Sunny spoke aloud, her voice much too real in the empty space.

  “God, I’m glad I have Rosie,” her voice said.

  44

  Walton Weeks Enterprises had offices in a building near Penn Station. There were several secretaries in a big front space, Walton’s imposing office, now bearing silent witness in the corner, and a somewhat smaller but still substantial office beside it where Jesse sat with Alan Hendricks.

  “You nervous?” Jesse said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re about to become Walton Weeks,” Jesse said. “Does that make you nervous.”

  “Well,” Hendricks said. “They are certainly big shoes to fill.”

  “Of course, you’ve walked some distance in them already,” Jesse said.

  Hendricks’s face looked stiff to Jesse.

  “Meaning?” Hendricks said.

  “Well, you have done a lot of Walton’s research and writing,” Jesse said. “Have you not?”

  “Well, of course, I’ve been with him for some years.”

  “And you’re prepared to proceed, alone,” Jesse said.

  “If Mrs. Weeks wants me to.”

  “Does she?”

  “She has suggested as much,” Hendricks said.

  He looked humble.

  “And you get along,” Jesse said.

  “She’s a very fine woman,” Alan said. “I hope I don’t disappoint her.”

  “Have you ever?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Jesse smiled and didn’t say anything.

  “What are you implying,” Hendricks said.

  Jesse shrugged.

  “Maybe you’re inferring?”

  Hendricks stared at Jesse.

  “I have interviewed half a dozen heads of state,” Hendricks said. “If you think I’m going to be intimidated by some small-town police chief, you are sadly mistaken.”

  “Damn,” Jesse said.

  “Why are we having this conversation?”

  “The time-of-death issue has opened up,” Jesse said. “I suppose you have an alibi for the last six weeks?”

  “Six weeks,” Hendricks said. “That’s a joke. I thought you had time of death established.”

  “We thought so, too,” Jesse said. “But we didn’t.”

  “So you now come here on some sort of fishing expedition, implying something illicit between me and Lorrie Weeks?”

  “I don’t recall suggesting that,” Jesse said.

  “I know what you’re doing,” Hendricks said. “I’m not some scared teenager you’ve stopped for speeding.”

  “I guess not,” Jesse said. “So were you intimate with Mrs. Weeks?”

  Hendricks stood suddenly up behind his desk.

  “This interview is over,” Hendricks said.

  Jesse stood more slowly. He smiled and nodded.

  “You were,” he said. “Weren’t you.”

  Hendricks said nothing. Jesse turned and left. Stephanie had that one right, Jesse thought as he waited for the elevator.

  45

  Suit brought a box of donuts and three coffees with him into the squad room. He put the box in the middle of the conference table and gave a cup each to Molly Crane and Jesse.

  “I miss anything?” Suit said.

  “I was outlining my theory of the crime,” Jesse said.

  “Which is?” Suit said.

  “That we’re not solving it,” Molly said.

  Suit nodded.

  “Cox is on the front desk,” Suit said. “He wanted to know how come he didn’t get donuts. I told him because he hadn’t made detective yet.”

  “Good, Suit,” Molly said. “Promote unit cohesion.”

  Jesse took the plastic cover off his coffee and tossed it onto the conference table. He stood beside the green chalkboard where he had written a list of names in yellow chalk.

  “I talked to the divorce lawyer,” Jesse said. “Esther Bergman. She affirms that Weeks wanted a divorce. That he was prepared to make a generous settlement on Lorrie, but that he didn’t want alimony and he would, of course, change his will.”

  “Any of this happen?” Molly said.

  “No, the lawyer was in process.”

  “Lorrie Weeks know?” Suit said.

  “The lawyer said she did.”

  “Funny no one mentioned this,” Suit said.

  “Good old Stephanie,” Jesse said.

  “What else did you find out this trip?” Suit said.

  “Lorrie was having sex with Hendricks,” Jesse said, “the faithful researcher.”

  “How’d you find that out?” Suit said.

  “Good old Stephanie,” Molly said. “Jesse employed the three-martini-lunch interrogation.”

  “Often effective,” Jesse said.

  “Unless the interrogator joins in,” Molly said.

  “Stephanie allowed me to know as well that she was occasionally intimate with Walton, and currently with Tom Nolan.”

  “Busy group down there in New York,” Molly said.

  “Lot of people been not telling us a lot of stuff,” Suit said. “Like Lutz didn’t mention that he had busted Weeks in Baltimore County.”

  “A hazard of police work,” Jesse said.

  “Makes you get sort of distrustful,” Suit said.

  Molly broke a small piece off a glazed cruller.

  “You think?” she said, and put the piece of cruller in her mouth.

  “So what we do have is that Mrs. Weeks knows her husband is planning to divorce her. She is intimate with the man who will continue the franchise after her husband’s
death.”

  “You’re sure Stephanie’s not just being catty?” Molly said.

  “Isn’t catty a sexist concept?” Jesse said.

  “It is,” Molly said. “You’re sure she’s not?”

  “I talked with Hendricks. They were doing something,” Jesse said.

  “But if he divorces her,” Suit says, “then she loses control of the franchise.”

  “Which might mean she loses Hendricks,” Molly said. “Or Hendricks doesn’t get the job when Weeks dies.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “Or both,” he said.

  “Carey and the unborn child get it all?” Molly said.

  “I would assume,” Jesse said.

  “So there’s some pretty good motive here,” Suit said.

  Jesse nodded. No one said anything for a moment.

  Then Molly said, “But?”

  “But can you see them doing it?”

  “I don’t even know them,” Molly said.

  She ate another small piece of cruller. Jesse smiled. Jenn used to eat something in small pieces so it wouldn’t be fattening.

  “Bergdorf’s sophisticate, adult Ivy Leaguer,” Jesse said. “Princeton probably. They could shoot a couple of people maybe. But transport them to a house with a walk-in refrigerator and store them there, then haul them out and hang one up and toss the other in a Dumpster?”

  “Don’t seem like people who would be that aware of the effects of ambient temperature on a corpse,” Molly said.

  “That’s right,” Jesse said.

  “But Lutz would,” Suit said.

  “That’s right,” Jesse said.

  “But he’s got no motive,” Suit said.

  “He has no motive that we know about,” Jesse said.

  “They could have hired him to do it,” Molly said.

  “And he’d own them for the rest of their lives,” Jesse said.

  “Even Bergdorf sophisticates and Princeton grads can be stupid,” Molly said.

  Jesse nodded.

  “So,” Suit said. “Now we have an actual theory of the crime.”

  “Lorrie, with or without the complicity of Hendricks, did it, maybe with help from Lutz.”

  “Lot of with or withouts and maybes in there,” Molly said.

  “How true,” Jesse said.