Robert B. Parker's Colorblind

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “You can’t afford to slip and fall like you did the other night,” the soldier said. “If you fall, the whole plan will fail. She can’t catch up to you too soon.”

  “I know. It’s not raining and I won’t be on grass. I won’t fall and I’ll do what I have to do.”

  The soldier pointed at the Gray Gull. “Okay. She’s in there. When she comes out, make sure she gets a good look at you, a real good look. And remember, run her right past the police station.”

  “All right! All right! I got it.”

  The soldier patted the kid on the shoulder. “Go!”

  * * *

  —

  BEFORE DYLAN COULD ANSWER, there was an explosion of sirens and honking horns on Alisha’s end of the line. He knew what that was about. That’s why he was late. That’s why he was calling. Truth was, he was almost happy he wasn’t going to be able to make it. Alisha had changed. She was angry and drinking too much. The worst of it, though, was that look in her eyes, like she didn’t trust him anymore.

  “Lisha, Lisha, can you hear me?” he asked, screaming into the phone.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN THE NOISE DIED DOWN, Alisha put the phone back up to her ear.

  “I hear you. There were sirens,” she said. “Fire trucks.”

  “I heard them, too.”

  “You’re late.”

  “Those fire trucks are headed over here to Stiles,” he said. “The Nolan gatehouse is up in flames. Looks like arson.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re not coming.”

  “I can’t come. This is my job.”

  She clicked off and waved to the barman. “Just Jack this time, a double.”

  Her phone rang almost as soon as she finished ordering. She silenced it. Finished her Jack and Coke, guzzled the double shot of Jack, and left a twenty and a ten on the bar.

  When she stepped outside, she thought she saw deliverance in the face of the suspect in the cross-burning.

  33

  Jesse was sitting across from Bill at the Starbucks in the same seats they’d sat in the last time. He was glad that Bill and Anya were at the meeting. The three of them sat together once again in the next-to-last row. None of them had shared, and Anya once again turned down an invitation to join them for coffee.

  “How’s it gone, Jesse . . . since we talked?” Bill asked.

  Although the question was vague, Jesse knew what he meant. “Haven’t had a drink. Haven’t felt like it. The meetings help.”

  “That they do. For me, they help me feel like I have something to live up to. I spent so much of my life disappointing people that I don’t want to let the people who support me down again. At the same time, I know if I did that, they’d still be there for me.”

  “Like being on a team.”

  “A team, huh? I was never much of a joiner or a team player. You?” Bill didn’t let Jesse answer. “Stupid question. Being a cop must be like being on a team.”

  “Sometimes.” Jesse was curious. “You said you’d been around a lot of cops.”

  Bill was laughing.

  “I miss the joke?”

  “Lots of cops in AA, but that’s not why I’m laughing. I know I said I wasn’t a team player, but that’s not a hundred percent accurate. You might say I used to play for the other team.”

  Now Jesse was laughing, too. “One of the bad guys?”

  Bill looked a little sheepish. “Not so bad, but I did some time when I was younger. I made book, but mostly I handled some goods that crossed my desk. You know, stuff that fell off the truck. Like that.”

  “A fence.”

  Bill said, “I liked to think of myself as a middleman, an honest broker. Funny how alcohol helps you escape taking responsibility. It was funny right up until they closed the cell door and I lost my first family. For the longest time I couldn’t get my head around why no one else understood none of it was my fault. But not even prison and losing my kids was enough to stop me from drinking. It took me nearly losing my second family to wake up.”

  “That was your second family you were talking about when you shared.”

  Bill nodded. “It’s still hard for me to talk about the early stuff. Not easy knowing you’ve got a kid out in the world who thinks you abandoned her. After I got straight, I hired a PI to find my wife and daughter so I could try to make it right, but there are some things you can’t fix or undo. I tried. Got the door slammed in my face until I gave up. Finally, I left a long letter apologizing and taking responsibility. I gave them all my contact info.”

  “Never got in touch?”

  “Thirty-three years and counting. You got a family, Jesse?”

  “Married once. No kids. We would’ve been bad parents.”

  Bill waited for Jesse to continue. Jesse stopped there because the full answer was both very simple and extremely complicated. Jenn and he were always so busy doing their dance that there would have been no room for children. And every time Jesse caught a case involving a child or teenage victim, he felt a tremendous sense of relief that violence could never touch him in that way.

  Bill said, “I hope you don’t think less of me now. I know I shouldn’t care, but I do.”

  “I’m not like that. Over the years I’ve had some questionable . . . friends. No offense, but they make you look like a saint.”

  “None taken.”

  They finished their coffees in silence. Jesse barely noticed the conversation had stopped. He was thinking about Gino Fish and Vinnie Morris and some of the deals he’d made to see justice done.

  34

  Alisha wasn’t sure why she was rattled, whether it was her disappointment with Dylan, the alcohol, or the shock of seeing the suspect twenty feet in front of her, but whatever the reason, she couldn’t think of what to say. Stop! Freeze! Halt! Don’t move! Get on your knees, hands behind your head! They all zipped through her head, but by the time she opened her mouth, the suspect took off running.

  She ran after him, happy she’d chosen flats instead of heels. “Halt! Paradise Police. Halt!”

  Alisha was yelling as loudly as she could. She was sure he heard her, but the suspect wouldn’t stop. He was pretty quick, though he couldn’t seem to lengthen the distance between them, nor did he try to duck down side streets or head into the marina, where, in the dark, it would have been easier to lose her. In fact, he kept turning back to eye her, almost to make sure she was still following behind him. And then there was the look on his face. She could swear he was smirking at her. It was the kind of smirk a little kid has when he knows something you don’t and he thinks that matters.

  She couldn’t get that look on his face out of her head. What does he know? Why is he looking at me like that?

  “Paradise Police. Stop!”

  He didn’t stop.

  Alisha hadn’t yet reached under her jacket for her off-duty piece. Jesse was very clear about how he expected his cops to act. She could hear his voice in her head. No gunplay in town. We’re not going to get any citizens hurt by ricochets or missed shots going through bedroom windows. You draw your weapon in town only when you feel citizens are under threat or you are in imminent danger. And neither of those thresholds had been met. Besides, she thought, as the suspect took a surprising turn toward the station house, this guy was only wanted for questioning. All they had on him in terms of evidence was surveillance footage of him acting nervous while purchasing five gallons of kerosene. No, she wasn’t going to go for her weapon and put herself in any more hot water than she already was.

  That’s when things began going sideways. When the suspect looked back at her, the smirk was gone. She wasn’t sure what to make of his expression. Could that be disappointment on his face? They were almost at the police station when the suspect reached around under his jacket.

  “Paradise Police! Don’t do it, asshole!” Even she coul
d hear the change in her voice, the level of threat in it ratcheting up. And she was suddenly conscious of her off-duty nine-millimeter in her right hand, its polished steel slide glistening in the ambient streetlight. She felt a wave of relief wash over her as the suspect’s hand came out from under his jacket with nothing in it. But her sense of relief was short-lived, because as they ran directly in front of the police station, the guy turned back to look at her. And there it was again, that smirk. What does he know that I don’t? Is he playing me?

  Past the station, the suspect picked up the pace. Alisha picked up her pace in kind. As she did, she felt a strange sense that there was someone else, someone hiding in the shadows, keeping up with the chase. It wasn’t that she heard anything or saw anything. It was more a feeling than anything else, but she couldn’t afford to divide her attention between the very real suspect ten yards ahead of her and a specter out there in the dark. Just as she was prepared to dismiss the specter, she heard the hollow echo of a plastic garbage can falling to the pavement. Then, as she swung her nine-millimeter around, a gray tabby emerged from the shadows, stared at her, sat on his haunches, and began washing himself.

  She smiled in spite of herself, but the smile lasted only long enough for her to realize that her brief hesitation had let the suspect gain a half-block on her. She darted ahead, sprinting as hard as she could. As she closed the gap between them, he changed his tactics. Instead of keeping in a basic straight line as he had from when their eyes met outside the Gull to now, he made a sharp left turn between two parked cars and doubled back past her, pumping his arms, breathing loud enough for her to hear. She turned with him. He turned again and again and again, left then left then right. She matched him. She smelled her own sweat soaking through her clothes. Her throat burned. Her left side ached.

  Then the suspect seemed to vanish. Alisha stopped in her tracks, forcing herself to calm her breathing, listening. There! Footsteps! She smiled because she knew right where he was. Those last frenzied footsteps she’d heard sounded different from the ones that had come beforehand. These last steps had come from Newton Alley, a narrow dead-end lane inaccessible to cars that, in the nineteenth century, had been home to three small oyster houses. Now the home of art galleries, it was the one place in town where discarded shells had been incorporated into the pavement. Photos of Newton Alley were always included in Chamber of Commerce and tourist promotions for Paradise. Alisha had noticed while patrolling the area how her own footsteps sounded different on the pavement in Newton Alley.

  She took her time, collected herself, and moved cautiously toward the entrance to the dead end. Boxed in on three sides, the suspect had nowhere to go. Although the dead end was no more than a hundred yards in length and very narrow, it was unlit, and Alisha knew that cornered humans were much like cornered animals. At the edge of the alley, she tried one last time.

  “Surrender now. Let me hear you drop your weapon and kick it toward me.” She called to him, calm as she could manage, “Do it now. Right now.”

  Silence.

  With her weapon before her, Alisha spun to face down the lightless dead end. She could barely make out the suspect’s silhouette. Although she couldn’t see his face at all, she just knew he was smirking at her.

  “Drop your weapon.”

  The silhouette didn’t move. Then it did. There was something in its hand. A flash briefly lit up the night and the light, and Alisha saw that the suspect was smirking at her. She didn’t wait for the inevitable bang of the shot before returning fire. This was her life or his now. And before she knew it, the slide of her nine-millimeter locked. She’d emptied her clip at the silhouette.

  35

  Jesse heard the sirens and knew something was very wrong. His cops were under strict rules about using their sirens and light bars in town. He was giving the voice command to call the station when his phone rang. It was Molly.

  “Jesse, where are you?”

  “Just pulling into town. What’s going on?”

  “Get over to Newton Alley. There’s been a shooting.”

  “Civilians?”

  “Alisha.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’s not wounded, but she’s not all right.”

  “No riddles, Molly, please.”

  “The suspect in the cross-burning is dead. Peter and Suit are over there. I sent Gabe and Gary over to help with crowd control.”

  “Did you call the staties? They’re the ones who’ll have to investigate this.”

  “I figured to let you make that decision.”

  “Call Lundquist and call Connie.”

  “Will do. Jesse, there’s . . . never mind.”

  “I’m less than a minute away. Finish what you started saying. I don’t want to walk into anything blind.”

  “The deceased didn’t have a weapon.”

  “What?”

  “Suit called and said they couldn’t find the suspect’s weapon.”

  Jesse didn’t want to curse, but it seemed like the only appropriate response. Instead, he kept it to himself. What he said to Molly was “I’m here. Make those calls.”

  The new ME was getting out of his car just as Jesse pulled up next to him. Carson Minter was, in nearly every way, the direct opposite of Tamara Elkin, the woman who’d preceded him as ME. Whereas Tamara was long and lean, a former world-class distance runner with a lion’s mane of curly brown hair, someone who could go drink for drink with Jesse, the new ME was a prematurely bald, rotund little man of thirty-five. Unlike his predecessor, Minter was reserved, a man of few words and stingy with opinions. This was his first big job. Jesse hadn’t had more than a few cursory conversations with the man, but that was about to change.

  “Dr. Minter,” Jesse said, hurrying to get next to the ME.

  “Chief Stone.” Minter stopped, turned to Jesse. “Given the circumstances, I believe it would be best to limit our contact to official channels only.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Doc. Until the state police arrive, this is my crime scene.”

  “Actually, as far as the victim is concerned, it’s mine.”

  Minter turned away from Jesse and hurried to get under the yellow tape. Newton Alley no longer resembled the quiet, unlit finger of walled-in pavement down which the suspect had retreated and down which Alisha had emptied her weapon. With the swirling colored strobes of light bars atop official vehicles, cruiser headlights, and bank of portable lights, it more resembled Bourbon Street at Mardi Gras. Jesse saw Alisha was seated on the back step of a fire-department ambulance, her head buried in her hands. He would talk to her in a few minutes, but first he needed someone to bring him up to speed. He walked up to Suit, who was manning the crime scene tape.

  “Did you talk to Alisha?”

  Suit nodded. “She spoke to me and Peter, yeah.”

  “Tell me everything she said. Don’t leave out a single detail,” Jesse said.

  “According to Alisha, she came out of the Gray Gull, and standing there, no more than twenty feet in front of her, was the suspect in the cross-burning. The suspect—”

  Jesse cut him off. “Was she at the Gull eating or drinking?”

  Suit hesitated, then said, “Drinking. Two Jack and Cokes, a double of Jack straight up.”

  Jesse’s jaw clenched. “Go on.”

  Suit described to him the rest of the chase and the shooting as it had been described to him.

  “She said he fired at her?”

  “She swears he did, Jesse. Alisha says he took the first shot and that’s when she returned fire.”

  “But you found no weapon on or in close proximity to the victim.”

  Suit shrugged. “I wish we did, but Peter and I looked everywhere. Believe me, Jesse, we searched every inch of the alley. I even went around the corner and checked. No weapon.”

  “Do we have an ID on the suspect
?”

  “We just checked him for a pulse. We knew this could be trouble, so we didn’t want to disturb the body any more than we had to.”

  “You did right. When the staties debrief you, you tell them exactly what you told me. Exactly. I don’t want you or Perkins to color any answers to help Alisha. It won’t help her and it will bury you.”

  “I got it, Jesse, but—”

  “But nothing.”

  “I believe her. At least I believe she believes she was fired on. She’s not lying, Jesse. I’d swear to it.”

  36

  Alisha raised her head out of her hands as Jesse approached her. Her eyes were bloodshot and teary. Her mascara had left black streaks and smears on her cheeks. Jesse noticed the blood on the sleeve of her jacket and on the edge of her white sweater sleeve.

  He asked, “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head furiously. “That’s the vic—I mean, the suspect’s blood. I had to check to see if he was alive. I can’t get warm, Jesse. I just can’t get warm.”

  “She’s shocky, Chief,” said Tommy Simonetti, the EMT who was attending to Alisha. He laid two blankets over her shoulders. “She should be okay in a couple of hours.”

  “Tommy, can you give us a minute?” When the EMT was out of earshot, Jesse said, “I need you to surrender your badge and weapon. It’s department policy. You’re suspended with pay until further notice.”

  She handed Jesse her ID case. “Peter already bagged my weapon. Jesse,” she said, grabbing his wrist, “I swear to you he fired on me. I know there’s no gun on him, but I swear it.”

  “Alisha, you’re under no obligation to talk to me or anyone else. As chief, I want you to fully cooperate with the investigation, but you’ve got rights. Get yourself a good lawyer. The town is obliged to cover the costs up to a point, and the system, as screwed as it is, only works if everyone is protected.”