Robert B. Parker's Colorblind

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “Any brain function?”

  “Some.”

  “I don’t get why whoever did this tried to make it look like the Tammy Portugal crime scene.”

  “Me, either, though I’ve got to admit they did go out of their way to make it look that way.”

  “‘They’?”

  “It’s all there.” Lundquist pointed at the file. “From the injuries, it looks like there was at least two, maybe three, different attackers. Animals.”

  “Any hits?”

  “None so far. The lipstick they used to write on the body was a cheap brand you could pick up anywhere.”

  “You eliminate the boyfriend, Randisi?”

  “Can’t yet.”

  Jesse nodded. “Because of there being more than one assailant.”

  “Exactly. I don’t think he’s involved, but I can’t be sure. Anyway, he says he’s going to stick around until Wileford comes out of her coma.”

  “Anything else?”

  “We found some strands of a black polyester-and-spandex blend.”

  “That lead anywhere?”

  “Pretty common stuff. The lab thinks it might come from athletic wear. You know, the kind of material football players wear under their equipment or runners wear in cold weather. Like I said, it’s all there.” Lundquist turned in his chair, facing the office door. “What’s going on out there? I’ve never seen two of your people handling calls before. You guys have a blackout in town or a flood or something?”

  “Or something,” Jesse said. “Here.”

  Lundquist barely reacted as he read the flier.

  Jesse said, “You’ve seen it before.”

  “The SS,” he said, nodding. “I have, but not this far south. Mostly up along the border with New Hampshire or out west along the New York border.”

  “What can you tell me about them?”

  Lundquist held up the flier and turned it to face Jesse. “What could I tell you about them that this doesn’t tell you? I mean, they’re called the SS for short.”

  “You know anything about their leadership or how they operate?”

  “Sorry, Jesse. I’ve just run across these fliers before. I’ve got no idea who they really are or how they operate. Why, you think there’s a connection between Felicity Wileford’s assault and this?”

  “We had a cross-burning last night while these fliers were being stuck on car windshields across town. Happened to be the people who bought my old house. The husband’s a doctor of Indian descent. The wife is blond and blue-eyed and they’ve got two little kids.”

  “Shit. Interracial couples.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay, I know some people who work with Homeland Security who monitor potential homegrown terrorist groups and people at the Boston PD in intelligence. I’ll see if I can’t get them to get in touch with you about this.”

  “I’d appreciate it, Brian.”

  Lundquist stood up and shook Jesse’s hand. “Then let me get to it.”

  Before he left, Jesse asked, “Hear anything about the Swan Harbor cop, Daniels?”

  Lundquist shrugged. “Service record is pretty clean. Let’s face it, Jesse, Swan Harbor’s even smaller than Paradise. There’s not much trouble for a cop to get into there.”

  When he was sure he was alone, Jesse reached over to his right and opened the drawer in which he used to keep his office bottle. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until he stopped himself from reaching for the bottle that was no longer there. Strange how intensely he wanted a drink and how the meeting he’d been to only last night already felt like a distant memory. He slammed the drawer shut and instead of grabbing his old baseball glove, he pulled a business card out of his wallet.

  20

  Jesse sat there for several minutes, phone pinched between his cheek and shoulder. He had raised his index finger to punch in the number three or four times before backing off. It was still hard for him to admit weakness or ask for help. Then his finger was tapping in the area code.

  “Bill here,” said the man on the other end of the line.

  “It’s Jesse, the guy from—”

  “I remember. I don’t suppose you’re calling to say you had a lovely evening and wanted to see how I was doing.”

  “You’re a smart man.”

  “Not so smart, just experienced. You jonesing?”

  “Just reached into my desk drawer for the office bottle.”

  “Did you drink?”

  “If the bottle was still there, I think I would’ve.”

  “The bottle’s gone. That’s good.”

  “More lucky than good. Someone else got rid of it.”

  “Lucky works, Jesse. What matters is that you called instead of going somewhere to get a drink.”

  “I used to be able to will myself not to drink for weeks or months. Now if I’m not preoccupied, I can’t go thirty seconds without thinking about it.”

  Bill laughed.

  Jesse asked, “I say something funny?”

  “Not funny, exactly. Ironic.”

  “Ironic?”

  “In the past, when you went weeks without drinking, did you ever really, I mean in your guts, believe you were never going to drink again?”

  “Truth? No, I guess I always knew I would drink again. My shrink says it was a trick I played on myself, that I was like a kid holding his breath. That no matter how long I held my breath I would have to breathe again.”

  “Shrink, huh?”

  “Long story.”

  “Well, now you’re in it, Jesse. You may not ever get to a point where you never want to drink again. I’ve never gotten there. It’s a day-by-day thing. In the end, they add up to not drinking.”

  “Does it get easier?”

  Bill laughed again. “Some days are better than others, but that’s true about life, no?”

  “I thought the idea was for you to help me out here.”

  “I won’t lie to you about this stuff. I never thought much of people who did drugs when they were growing up and then lied to their kids that they were freakin’ saints and never touched a joint or popped a greenie. How does that help a kid who might be struggling?”

  “I see your point.”

  “Look, Jesse, they tell us to keep it simple. Don’t drink and go find a meeting. If you can’t get to a meeting until later, get the hell out of where you are and get busy doing something else. Can you do that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good man. I’ll be here if you need me. You okay?”

  “I’m fine now. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  Jesse hung up the phone and walked out of his office to get a cup of coffee that he didn’t actually want. He had struggled with drinking for a long time, but this felt different. It was one thing to struggle with drinking, because, as he had admitted to Bill, drinking was still part of the equation. Johnnie Walker was always going to be there at the end of the line, welcoming arms spread wide open. It was something else struggling not to drink, to not see that rectangular bottle filled just above its curved neck with amber liquid comfort, its slanted black-and-gold label calling to him. It was also something else for Jesse to so quickly ask for help, especially from a stranger.

  “Jesse,” Gabe Weathers said, waving a piece of paper in the air. “You better have a look at this.”

  “What?”

  “Gas station convenience store off 1A outside of town sold five gallons of kerosene last night.”

  “I’m sure a lot of places around here sold kerosene. What’s special about this one?”

  “Guy says his clerk felt hinky about the kid who bought the stuff.”

  “‘Hinky’?”

  “The owner’s word, not mine. Who should I send over to check it out?”

  Jesse grabbed the sl
ip of paper out of Gabe’s hand. “I’ll handle it. All the calls, were they about the fliers?”

  Gabe nodded. “Mostly, yeah.”

  Jesse pointed at Molly, who was busy on a call. “When the calls stop, send her home. Tell her it’s an order.”

  “Sure thing, Jesse. So what do you make of this?”

  “Not important what I make of it. It’s what these SOBs do or don’t make of it that matters.”

  Gabe shook his head. “Never thought we’d get this kind of thing come into Paradise.”

  Jesse didn’t want to say what he was thinking, that things don’t just materialize out of thin air. Some forms of evil don’t just appear in your house. They have to be invited in.

  21

  Jesse was glad to be out of the station, away from the phantom bottle and the hundreds of memories of drinks shared with Healy or with others in his office, but away from the cop house or not, he knew that wherever he went, the past would always ride shotgun. Right at the moment, he was more concerned with what the near future would hold than his past. He drove his Explorer around the gas pumps and pulled into one of the yellow-lined parking spots outside the convenience store. Slamming his door shut behind him, Jesse stopped, checked out the pumps and the brick building, looking for where the security cameras were positioned. He also took a deep breath and remembered that as a kid he had loved the almost sweet chemical smell of gasoline. He didn’t know whether it was his age or a change in formula, but the odor of gas no longer held any romance for him.

  “Morning to ya, Chief Stone. Be with you in a second,” said the middle-aged man behind the counter, taking a twenty-dollar bill from a nondescript woman. “That’s twenty unleaded on pump five.” He tapped some keys on a touchscreen in front of him, a cash drawer popped open, and he placed the twenty in the tray and closed the till. “Would you like a receipt?”

  She didn’t say anything to that, turned, and walked past Jesse as if he wasn’t there. When the woman was gone, the counterman stuck his hand out to Jesse.

  “Gary Cummings. I own the place. So I guess you’re here about the kerosene?”

  “Specifically about the kid who bought it. You said your clerk thought the kid was hinky.”

  “Sorry, Chief, that’s my word. My night man isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He said he felt the kid was too nervous, like a kid buying condoms for the first time or buying vodka with fake ID. He kept looking over his shoulder and looking at the cameras. We had a robbery here two years back. Guy pistol-whipped my counterman and threatened a customer. My guys are trained to get suspicious when they see people checking out where the cameras are.”

  “Good idea.”

  “This, too.” Cummings pulled up his baggy red, blue, and silver Patriots sweatshirt to reveal an automatic pistol holstered to his right hip. “Smith & Wesson M&P 45 Shield, all the stopping power of a big .45, and it fits neatly into even a small hand. Every one of my people has a Class A permit. Rob me once, shame on you. Rob me twice . . . Just let some asshole come in here and try to get us again.”

  Jesse wasn’t so sure he agreed. It wasn’t that Jesse was squeamish about guns or using them. He’d certainly used his, sometimes to deadly effect, but he was well trained. He also understood the feeling of powerlessness and sense of violation victims had to deal with. Rape was the worst and the most traumatic to cope with, but all crime leaves scars. Jesse didn’t think that arming everyone was necessarily the way to handle things, though he wasn’t here to discuss victim trauma or gun control.

  “Do you have footage of the kid?”

  Cummings, a graying but fit man an inch or two shorter than Jesse, pulled his sweatshirt back down and flashed a broad white smile. “I never thought you’d ask, Chief. I got it cued up in the back. Just let me get my son to cover me and I’ll go back there with you.” He picked up the phone and pressed the intercom button. “Junior, come up front.”

  Junior was the spitting image of his father. There was something else about him that Jesse noticed. The son had attitude, the wrong kind of attitude. He took one look at Jesse’s PPD hat and jacket, sneered, and shook his head. It wasn’t like the look Cole Slayton had given him. Junior’s attitude had more malice in it and he clearly had no love for cops. When he stopped shaking his head, he locked eyes with Jesse. Under other circumstances, Jesse might’ve laughed at him, but he needed the father’s cooperation. Jesse had stared into the eyes of serial killers, stared into the eyes of men who’d slit their own children’s throats as they slept. He had even stared into the eyes of the man who had murdered Diana. This guy, as tough as he thought he was, had a lot to learn. Jesse also took note of the neck tattoos peeking out from over the edge of the kid’s shirt collar. It seemed most of the people under thirty he ran into these days had tats, but Jesse couldn’t help but be curious about these.

  Cummings broke the stare down between his son and Jesse. “Okay, stay out here until I can show Chief Stone the footage from last night.”

  “Fine,” Gary Cummings Jr. said with little enthusiasm.

  “Right this way, Chief Stone.” The father led the way into the office.

  “We can cover every inch of the property except the interiors of the restrooms, of course,” Cummings said. “But you’re not interested in that. Here, look at the monitor on the top right and I’ll run the footage of the kid who bought the kerosene. Okay, here we go.”

  Jesse watched as a short, stocky young man dressed in all black strolled from the right side of the station, walked over to the kerosene pump, and put a plastic fuel container down on the ground. He seemed confused about what to do next. He picked up the container, took a few steps toward the store, then turned back to the pump and put the container down.

  “Can your clerk watch this in real time from the counter?” Jesse asked.

  “He can, and so can anyone back here.”

  Eventually, the kid walked into the convenience store and asked to pay for five gallons of kerosene. He reached into his pocket with shaking hands and gave the clerk too much money. He turned and left even as the clerk called to him. The clerk came out from behind the counter, ran after the kid, and caught him at the door. He looked scared and confused until the clerk gave him the change.

  Jesse said, “Easy to see why the kid got your clerk’s attention.”

  Then the kid filled up the container. When he was done, he ran as best he could, weighed down by the fuel, back in the direction from which he’d come.

  “Two things, Mr. Cummings. Can you generate a still photo from the—”

  Before Jesse could finish his question, Cummings reached behind him and handed Jesse a somewhat grainy photo of the kid’s face.

  “I thought you might want that. It’s not perfect, but it’s the clearest image I could capture. What’s the other thing?”

  “Do you have any footage of the vehicle the kid came in?”

  “Sorry, Chief. If he came in a vehicle at all, it was parked out of range of our cameras. As you can see, he comes into view out of the darkness on the east side of the station and disappears into it when he’s done. For all I know, he came on foot.”

  Jesse was skeptical about that. He kept his doubts to himself. He watched the video a few more times, thanked Cummings, and left. He could feel Junior’s eyes burning a hole through his back as he went, but he was more interested in the time-stamped photo in his pocket. More than that, Jesse couldn’t get the video footage out of his head. The kid could not have called more attention to himself had he sprayed the words Hey, look at me on his back in Day-Glo paint. Jesse didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.

  22

  That night, Jesse found himself back in the basement of the Episcopal church in Cambridge. He couldn’t help but smile, thinking that he was going to be spending a lot more time in church than he had ever anticipated he would. He hadn’t been to church twice in a week since he was a kid,
and those occasions had more to do with playing ball for the local church teams than religion. And he had never been a man to expend much energy contemplating God, but, he supposed, in spite of all the carnage he’d witnessed, he still believed. And from what he knew of AA, a belief in a higher power helped. That remained to be seen. For the moment, other than compiling his list and finding a temporary sponsor, he felt more like an AA observer than a participant.

  He was a little early this time. Although most of the seats were empty, he found the same seat he’d sat in the previous night. He’d never been a front-row type of guy anyway, not in school nor in the police academy. He passed the time checking his phone to see if there had been any messages from anyone in Paradise. He’d had his cops distribute the photo of the kid caught on camera at the gas station. Jesse had stopped by the Patels’ on his way down to Boston to check in on them and to see if they might recognize the kid in the photo. But only Liza Patel was home and she swore she had never seen the kid before.

  “What’s his name? Is he the one who did this to us?” she asked, pointing out the window at where the cross had been burned into the grass. Though a landscaper had already rototilled the soil where the charred grass had been, Jesse could tell the cross was not going to vanish from Liza Patel’s memory anytime soon.

  “We don’t have a name yet,” he said. “He bought five gallons of kerosene last night about a half-hour before the incident here, at a gas station not too far out of town. But a lot of people buy kerosene in these parts. I’ll let you know if we make an arrest. Meanwhile, I’m leaving a car on your house for at least another few days.”

  Jesse hadn’t expected gratitude. That was good, because he didn’t get it, not at first.

  “You could put fifty cars out there and I wouldn’t feel my kids were safe, but you wouldn’t understand, would you, Chief Stone?”

  He didn’t bother asking her to call him Jesse. “Try me. I might surprise you.”