“We don’t require them to come home,” the Patriarch said. “But we need to know where they are, like any family.”
“And you don’t know.”
“No. She went out yesterday to mingle and she didn’t return.”
“ ‘Mingle’?”
“We like all of us to mingle with our neighbors,” the Patriarch said.
“Maybe some sort of romantic tryst?” Jesse said.
“Todd doesn’t know where she is, either,” the Patriarch said.
“Todd’s her boyfriend?” Jesse said.
“Yes, her current life companion,” the Patriarch said.
Jesse nodded.
“She wouldn’t cheat on him,” Jesse said.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“No,” the Patriarch said. “Humans are too various for certainty. I don’t believe she would cheat on her life companion.”
“Have you tried her parents’ home?”
“They will not take our calls,” the Patriarch said.
“So as far as you know, they are not aware that she’s missing?”
“I have no knowledge of them,” the Patriarch said. “I know only that they hired a private detective to locate her and try to convince her to come home.”
“Sunny Randall,” Jesse said.
“You know her?”
“I do.”
“Sometimes parents will arrange to have their children kidnapped,” the Patriarch said. “Their own children.”
“Not Sunny’s style.”
“No,” the Patriarch said. “It didn’t seem so to me, when we spoke.”
“Have you told her that Cheryl is missing?” Jesse said.
“It didn’t occur to me.”
“I’ll be speaking to her,” Jesse said. “I’ll tell her.”
“You think she could be helpful?” the Patriarch said.
“She knows what Cheryl looks like,” Jesse said. “And I don’t.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Do you have a picture?” Jesse said.
“No.”
“How about Todd?”
“I don’t know,” the Patriarch said. “I can ask.”
“She drive a car?” Jesse said.
“She didn’t own one,” the Patriarch said. “Why?”
“If she’s got a license we can get a picture from the registry.”
“Oh,” the Patriarch said. “Of course. I am not very worldly about such things.”
“No reason you should be,” Jesse said.
“I can describe her,” the Patriarch said.
“Sure,” Jesse said.
The Patriarch described her. Jesse took a couple of notes. When he finished describing, the Patriarch said, “Do you think she’s all right?”
“Probably,” Jesse said.
“Can you find her?”
“Probably,” Jesse said.
21
THEY TOLD ME she’d been brainwashed by a cult,” Sunny Randall said, “when they hired me.”
She sat beside Jesse in the front seat of Jesse’s car as they drove southbound on Route 128.
“And that they wanted me to find her and talk to her and, if possible, bring her home.”
“So you went to visit,” Jesse said.
“I did,” Sunny said.
“And you found something less than Charles Manson and friends,” Jesse said.
“You’ve talked with the Patriarch person?” Sunny said.
“Yes.”
“The whole operation seems to me about as sinister as a Brownie troop,” Sunny said.
“Less,” Jesse said.
“You’re right,” Sunny said. “I never liked all that scouting crap, either.”
“And the kid didn’t want to leave,” Jesse said.
“No.”
“So I said maybe I could bring Mom and Dad,” Sunny said. “And the kid laughed.”
“But you tried,” Jesse said.
“I did. I told them it seemed very unsinister, and maybe if they saw it . . .”
“What did they say?”
“They weren’t interested. Their name isn’t DeMarco, by the way. They changed it to Markham.”
“Sounded more Concordian?” Jesse said.
“Yes. Elsa said DeMarco was too North End.”
“But the kid is keeping her birth name,” Jesse said.
“Guess so,” Sunny said. “They’ll never let me in, or you, either, if I’m with you. You don’t have much official standing here.”
“I’ve arranged for a Concord police detective to go with us, sort of disarm the matter of jurisdiction,” Jesse said.
“No wonder you made chief,” Sunny said.
“I made chief because the selectmen at the time wanted a drunk they could control,” Jesse said.
“They erred,” Sunny said.
“They got the drunk part right,” Jesse said. “I guess they were a little off on the control part . . . so far.”
“Well, aren’t we down on ourselves today,” Sunny said. “Want to share?”
Jesse didn’t answer for a time. They reached Route 2 and turned west toward Concord.
“The night Knocko Moynihan got shot they couldn’t find me. I was passed out dead drunk at home.”
Sunny nodded.
“You know what set you off?” she said.
“Maybe I’m just a drunk,” Jesse said.
“Whatever you are, Jesse,” Sunny said, “you are not just a drunk.”
Jesse shrugged.
“What’s Dix say?”
“You think I told him?”
“Of course you told him,” Sunny said. “What’s he for?” Jesse nodded slowly.
“We’re working on that question,” Jesse said.
“ ‘What he’s for?’ ”
“No,” Jesse said. “We’re working on what set me off.”
“Is it okay now,” Sunny said. “I mean, in town?”
“Yes,” Jesse said. “Molly and Suit covered for me. Said I was out of town at the time, an issue with my ex-wife.”
“And the selectmen bought it?”
“They did,” Jesse said. “They’re not the smartest three guys in town.”
“If they were,” Sunny said, “they probably wouldn’t be spending time as selectmen.”
“Good point,” Jesse said.
They paused behind several other cars at a stoplight at the juncture with Route 2A’s bypass, where Route 2 took a sharp turn southwest.
“But you must feel lousy about it,” Sunny said.
“Yes.”
“Ashamed,” Sunny said.
“Yes.”
“Had a drink since?” Sunny said.
“No.”
“Miss it?”
Jesse nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
“I don’t think you’re an alcoholic, Jesse,” Sunny said. “I think you like to drink. I think when you’re unhappy it helps you feel better. But I don’t think you have to stop. I think you could drink in moderation if you get your, for lack of a better description, psyche settled.”
The light changed. Jesse drove across the intersection and into Concord.
“I’ll work on it,” he said.
“I know you will,” Sunny said.
They were quiet until they reached the Concord police station. Jesse pulled in and parked. Then he turned and put his hand on Sunny’s thigh.
“Thank you,” he said.
Sunny put her hand over his and smiled.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
22
THEY PICKED UP a Concord detective named Sherman Kennedy and drove in a Concord police car to the Markham home.
“It’s ugly,” Jesse said, as they got out of the cruiser. “But pretentious.”
“True,” Sunny said. “But it’s much worse inside.”
Kennedy laughed.
“Summers,” he said, “I used to work construction while I was going to college. An
d I worked on this place. They built a whole bunch of them out here when mortgage money was easy.”
He was a sturdy young guy with a crew cut and some modest lettering that said Sherm tattooed on his left wrist.
“Some foreclosures around here?”
“Like a damned going-out-of-business sale. People got balloon notes all of a sudden coming due. People who had no business buying one of these fucking monsters . . . ’Scuse me, Ms. Randall.”
“My father was a cop,” Sunny said. “I was a cop. I been hanging out with a bad element all my life.”
Kennedy grinned.
“So you don’t give a fuck,” he said.
“I do not,” Sunny said.
“Anyway,” Kennedy said. “Lotta people bought places they couldn’t afford with mortgages they shouldn’t have gotten, or got places they couldn’t afford but thought they could flip when the price went up, and the prices didn’t go up and they couldn’t carry the payments. . . . You know.”
“I do,” Sunny said.
They went to the front door. Kennedy put his badge folder in his breast pocket so that the badge showed. Elsa Markham answered the door.
“Hi,” Kennedy said. “Detective Kennedy. I called earlier.” Elsa nodded. She looked at Sunny.
“Ms. Randall,” she said.
“Mrs. Markham,” Sunny said. “This is Jesse Stone. He’s the chief of police in Paradise.”
“Could you tell me what this is about?” Elsa said.
“May we come in?” Kennedy said.
“I am not required to let you in,” she said, “unless you have some sort of document, I believe.”
“True,” Kennedy said. “But it would probably go easier if we came in.”
“I’ll decide that,” Elsa said, “when I know what this is about.”
“Your daughter is missing,” Jesse said.
“I know that,” Elsa said.
“She’s missing from the Bond of the Renewal group home,” Jesse said. “Where she lived, in Paradise.”
Elsa was silent for a moment. Her face had a hard, sort of sick look, Jesse thought. As if she didn’t feel well. Then she spoke.
“You could have informed me of that by a phone call,” she said.
“We could,” Jesse said.
“But you chose to come here,” Elsa said.
“We did,” Jesse said.
“Phone call’s kind of cold,” Kennedy said.
“They could have sent just you,” she said to Kennedy. Then, turning back to Jesse: “Why did you and this woman come all the way out here?”
“Thought you might be helpful,” Jesse said.
“I’m no longer responsible for her. She wants to shack up with some Jesus freak, I have no control over that.”
“You think she’s shacking up?” Jesse said.
“That would be her style,” Elsa said.
“Any idea which Jesus freak?” Sunny said.
“None.”
“Has she done this before?” Jesse said.
“What the hell do you think she’s been doing in your stupid town for the last several months?” Elsa said.
“Any other instances,” Jesse said, “besides her adventures in Paradise?”
“Drive through town,” Elsa said. “Any long-haired, tattooed drug addict you see.”
“Many of those in town?” Jesse asked Kennedy.
Kennedy grinned and covered up his Sherm tattoo with his right hand.
“Not that many,” Kennedy said.
“Enough,” Elsa said.
Kennedy shrugged.
“Is Mr. Markham here?” Jesse said.
“John’s at work,” she said. “As he is every other weekday.”
“Industrious,” Jesse said.
“It costs a lot of money to be Elsa and John Markham,” she said.
“But worth it,” Jesse said.
“Every penny,” Elsa said.
“What does Mr. Markham do?” Sunny said.
“He’s senior vice president of marketing at Pace Advertising,” Elsa said.
“And Cheryl Markham?” Jesse said.
“She has chosen not to live under our roof,” Elsa said. “She wants to be on her own. Very well. She is on her own.”
“You’ve not heard from her,” Jesse said.
“I have not.”
“And you have no idea where she might be?” Jesse said.
“I do not.”
“Or with whom?” Jesse said.
“None.”
Jesse nodded. He looked at Sunny. She shrugged. He turned back to Elsa Markham.
He said, “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Markham.”
She nodded and closed the door.
They walked back to the Concord patrol car. They got in. Kennedy started it up and let it idle.
Then he said, “Jesus Christ.”
“You notice she didn’t ask us to let her know if we found her daughter,” Jesse said.
Sunny nodded.
“She don’t care?” Kennedy said.
“Maybe she’ll know if we find her daughter,” Jesse said.
“How would she know . . .” Kennedy said, and paused halfway through the sentence. “Because she knows where the kid is.”
“Might,” Jesse said.
Sunny nodded.
“Which would mean she took the kid herself,” Kennedy said.
“Or arranged it,” Jesse said.
“You think they kidnapped their own daughter?” Kennedy said.
“People do,” Jesse said.
“So, where is she?” Kennedy said.
“No way to know,” Jesse said. “Yet.”
“Why would they do it?” Kennedy said.
“For her own good?” Jesse said.
“Or,” Sunny said, “because she’s an embarrassment to them. Senior vice presidents have daughters at Wellesley.”
“Or we could be wrong,” Jesse said.
“We often are,” Sunny said.
“Well,” Kennedy said. “I’ll talk to the chief, but I would guess the best we can do is keep an eye on the house some. Case she’s there.”
“And loose,” Jesse said.
“You mean she might be locked up?”
“Might,” Jesse said. “You know what she looks like?”
Kennedy shook his head.
“No,” he said. “But I can probably get her picture from the high school.”
“If you do,” Jesse said, “send me a copy.”
“Sure,” Kennedy said. “Is there a license picture?”
“No.”
“Parents don’t have one?”
“They claim not,” Sunny said.
“Shit,” Kennedy said. “I got a hundred pictures of my daughter, and she’s eleven months old.”
“But not missing,” Jesse said.
“Sometimes I wish she were,” Kennedy said. “You got kids?”
Both Sunny and Jesse shook their heads.
“I wouldn’ta missed it,” he said. “But it’s hard on the wife.” Sunny and Jesse both nodded. Kennedy put the car in gear, and they drove out of the Markhams’ driveway.
“Well,” Kennedy said. “It could be worse. The house could have been foreclosed.”
Jesse nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “That probably would have been worse.”
23
JESSE SAT at his desk, reading the coroner’s report on Knocko Moynihan. Cause of death was a nine-millimeter bullet in the back of the head. Like Ognowski. Except that Ognowski had been shot with a .22. Didn’t mean they weren’t related. Didn’t mean they were. In fact, it didn’t mean much of anything yet . . . except that they were both dead.
From the front of the station Jesse heard a door slam and Molly yelling “Hey!” and heavy footsteps. He opened the drawer in his desk where he kept his gun. A huge man in a blue suit came through his door. He barely fit. Jesse guessed six-six and probably three hundred pounds. The suit was a little small for him. Behind the man came a s
mallish woman with big blond hair. Her dress was flowered and puffy at the shoulders. It was very short. Behind both of them, as they pushed into the office, was Molly. She had her gun out and at her side, pointed at the floor.
“I don’t know who this is, Jesse,” she shouted from behind the big man. “He just pushed right past me and headed for your office.”
Jesse nodded.
“Have a seat,” he said.
The big man squeezed into one of Jesse’s visitor chairs. The woman sat beside him, with her ankles crossed as modestly as possible given the skirt length. Her shoes were black with an ankle strap and a high cork platform. In the doorway, Molly still had her gun out, but she held it behind the doorjamb so it was not obvious.
The man said, “My name’s Ognowski.”
His voice seemed to come from someplace cavernous.
Jesse held up his hand.
“First,” Jesse said. “Some rules.”
“Rules?” the big man said.
“My name is Jesse Stone. I am the chief of police here. This is my station house.”
“So?”
“In my station house you do what my officers, particularly this one”—he nodded at Molly—“tell you to do.”
“This little girl?” the big man said.
“Her, me, whoever,” Jesse said. “You understand that rule?”
“I go where I wish,” the big man said.
“You go straight to a cell, you don’t calm down,” Jesse said.
The man stood slowly and looked down at Jesse.
“You will put me in a cell?”
Jesse took the gun from the drawer and pointed it at him.
“Yes,” Jesse said. “We will shoot you if we have to.”
The big man glanced back at Molly, who was also pointing her gun at him. Then he looked back at Jesse. He nodded once and sat back down. When he spoke, his voice had softened, but it continued to radiate power like a diesel generator.
“You are not welcoming,” he said.
“Not yet,” Jesse said.
The big man nodded again, as if in agreement with himself. Jesse put the gun back in the drawer, but he left the drawer open.
“You are a hard man,” the big man said.
“Of course I am,” Jesse said. “I’m the chief of police.”
“I am a hard man, too,” the big man said. “It is not a bad thing.”
“Sometimes it is a good thing,” Jesse said.
“My name is Nicolas Ognowski,” the big man said. “I want to know who murdered my son.”
The Jesse Stone Novels 6-9 Page 58