Robert B. Parker's Colorblind

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  But Jesse asked, “What’s that about?”

  “Forgive me, Chief—Jesse—but you’ll understand that I am not usually greeted with courtesy and respect by law enforcement types. Certainly, I’ve never been asked to address any so familiarly.”

  “I’m not a type, Reverend Mahorn, any more than you are. Until you give me reason to treat you otherwise, you’ll be treated with courtesy and respect.”

  “Fair enough.” Reverend Sam raised his hands. “But can you answer my question about why you fought so hard for Alisha Davis?”

  Jesse looked at Connie Walker, who gave Jesse a subtle nod to answer.

  “I thought she was the best candidate.”

  Reverend Sam shook his head. “C’mon, now, Jesse, let’s not play footsie with each other here. I’d like to hear the real reasons, not the pap you tell the media.”

  “Why do my reasons matter?” Jesse asked. “Why are you here, Reverend? Don’t you always come down on the opposite side of the police?”

  Mahorn puffed out his chest. “I’d like to think I come down on the side of right.”

  “Tell that to the two Newark cops whose careers you helped ruin.”

  Connie Walker got that look again as Reverend Sam shot out of his chair. “I should have known better than to think you would be reasonable.”

  Jesse waved his hands. “Please, Reverend, sit back down and I’ll tell you why I fought so hard for Officer Davis. But if you want to march out of here, I won’t stop you.”

  Mahorn sat.

  “Paradise is changing,” Jesse said. “People are moving up here and commuting to Boston. We’re a more diverse place than when I took this job. I didn’t think the easy way out, hiring another retired, white, big-city cop who came with twenty years of baggage, was the smart move. I wanted a young cop, another female cop, I could train. That Alisha was African American was an added benefit. A police force should reflect the community it serves or will be serving. She had the pedigree as a cop’s daughter, scored the highest on the test, and was the most impressive in her interviews. And until last night, she hadn’t done anything to make me seriously question my decision.”

  Reverend Sam clapped his hands together. “See, there it is! You’ve already convicted her without a trial. In your eyes, she’s guilty. She’s black and she shot a white man and that’s that.”

  “No, Reverend, I don’t know whether she shot an unarmed man. She says she didn’t and she’s never lied to me. I’ll wait until the state investigation is done before I make up my mind, because I believe in right and wrong more than skin color. And I believe in evidence.”

  “Lip service.”

  Before Jesse could say anything, Connie Walker was out of her seat. “Reverend, Jesse and I have had our differences, but I won’t sit here and let you question his integrity. He isn’t always right, but he believes what he says. You can accuse him of a lot of things, but not meaning what he says isn’t one of them.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Reverend Sam said, standing.

  Jesse stood, too. “Reverend, I understand the desire to support Officer Davis, but this has the potential to get ugly.”

  “I’m well aware of who the dead man is, Jesse. But I cannot let that deter us from the larger issue at stake here.”

  “You mean the truth?”

  Mahorn opened his mouth to react, then rethought what he was going to say. “You’re a clever man, Jesse. I won’t underestimate you again.”

  “Do you really want to help Officer Davis?” Jesse asked as he sat back down.

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Then forget about marching and pray somebody finds that gun.”

  The next thing Jesse heard was his office door closing.

  47

  Jesse walked down the steps to the basement of the Episcopal church in Cambridge. He figured this was the last meeting at the church he’d be able to get to for the foreseeable future. The demonstrations hadn’t yet started in Paradise, but he knew they were coming and that in the days to come he and his cops would be pushed to their limit. And once the autopsy results and preliminary forensics reports came out, things would blow up. So when Bill called him back, apologizing for not being able to take Jesse’s call, he urged Jesse to get to a meeting, any meeting. But Jesse, like a lot of drunks, was a creature of routine, and after only a few meetings, he didn’t feel comfortable enough to wander into an unfamiliar meeting closer to Paradise.

  When he came through the doors he saw Bill was sitting in the next-to-last row, his jacket thrown over the seat next to him. Bill picked up his jacket when he saw Jesse. Anya was there, too, but not in her usual seat. She had moved up closer to the front of the room and was sitting next to a man Jesse had seen Anya talking to at the end of the last meeting. He felt a twinge. Not jealousy, but it felt like a loss to him. He’d had big losses in his life and he always abided, stoically. Taking it like he thought a man should take things. That was before he had stopped drinking. He didn’t know how to feel about things without drinking. No wonder people fall off the wagon, he thought.

  Bill noticed Jesse staring over at Anya.

  “This isn’t meant as a place for friendship, Jesse. Me and you, that’s different. Maybe we’ll be friends or maybe not. Anya, she’ll have to find her own way.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sorry again for not calling you back. All I had to do was read the paper to see why you’d want to drink. Rough day?”

  “Going to get rougher,” Jesse said.

  “I won’t ask you about it, but if talking about it will help you with your thirst, I’m good.”

  “Reverend Sam Mahorn turned up in Paradise today,” Jesse said, not quite believing he was telling this to Bill.

  “Oh, man. Between him and the dead man’s father . . . I wouldn’t wanna trade places with you.”

  Jesse agreed. He’d been in some unenviable spots before, but not like this one. It was just as bad for his cops. Worse, maybe. His mind drifted, thinking about what he would say to them in the morning.

  “Jesse, we’re starting. It’s serenity prayer time,” Bill said, nudging Jesse’s leg gently with his knee and snapping him back into the moment.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN THE MEETING WAS OVER, Bill offered to buy Jesse a cup of coffee. Jesse thanked him but decided he wanted to skip it and take a walk.

  “Good luck, Jesse. Remember, you need me, call.”

  Around the corner from the church, Jesse heard something, a muffled scream. He took off running. Jesse spotted an open rear car door. The car was bouncing. He heard the muffled scream again. Jesse ran to the open car door. There was a man on top of a woman. Her hands were flailing, her feet kicking.

  “Get off me! Get off me!”

  Jesse grabbed the man’s hair and yanked back hard. The man let out a yelp like a wounded dog as he was pulled out of the car and off the woman. Jesse slammed the man’s face onto the sidewalk, stunning him.

  “Jesse,” the woman said.

  When Jesse turned, he saw the woman sitting up in the car was Anya. Her lip was split, her front teeth red with blood; her jacket was opened and her sweater was torn. The man on the sidewalk was the guy she’d been sitting with at the meeting. She jumped out of the car as Jesse reached for his phone. She clutched his hand in hers. “No cops, Jesse.”

  Jesse looked at her, down at the man, then back at her. “Are you sure?”

  “Please, Jesse. No cops.”

  “Okay.” Jesse pulled the man to his feet by an arm bent behind him. It was painful. Jesse meant it to be. Jesse threw him against the car, then turned to Anya. “Walk away. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “But Jesse—”

  “If you don’t want cops, walk away.”

  When Anya was far enough away, he took the man’s wallet and remov
ed his driver’s license.

  “Edward Perry,” Jesse said, pushing on the man’s bent arm until it was about to break. “I’ll be sending your license to a friend, Eddie. You think you’re a lucky man, but you’d be wrong.” He spun Perry around and shoved the muzzle of his nine-millimeter into his ribs, hard. “You know who Vinnie Morris is, Eddie?”

  Edward Perry’s eyes got wide. That was answer enough.

  “Good, because that’s who I’m mailing your license to with a little note.”

  “I swear, she was coming on to me. I—”

  Jesse introduced his right knee to Edward Perry’s groin. Perry doubled over, and when he did, Jesse used his knee again. Perry’s nose broke with a sickening sound. His face was a mess of blood, mucus, and tears. Jesse let him fall to the ground.

  “Wrong answer. Get yourself to a hospital and then always keep an eye in your rearview mirror. You’ll never know if the guy driving that car behind you or sitting in the seat next to you in the theater works for Vinnie. Understand? Nod your head, Eddie.”

  Edward Perry nodded and Jesse walked away.

  “He won’t bother you anymore,” Jesse said, holding his arm around Anya’s shoulders. She was trembling, tears running down her cheeks. “C’mon, I’m driving you home.”

  She didn’t argue with him.

  48

  Jesse didn’t guess Anya for a Brookline type, but he didn’t figure her for a run-down factory building in Newmarket Square, either. While it wasn’t a squat, Jesse didn’t think it was likely zoned for apartments, at least not the building she had him stop in front of.

  “You sure this is your address?”

  She didn’t answer the question. “You’re police, huh?”

  He hadn’t given it much thought, but he realized his PPD hat and jacket were on the backseat and the switched-off police scanner mounted below the dash kind of gave him away.

  “Does that matter? You were pretty clear on no cops back there.”

  “Hank and—I don’t like cops too much.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “What I did tonight, I did because you needed help,” he said.

  “Thank you, Jesse. I guess I shoulda said that before.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just glad I stopped him.”

  She was crying again. She balled her hands into fists and punched her thighs. “I’m so stupid sometimes.”

  “We’re all stupid sometimes. You can’t blame yourself for what that guy did. He won’t do it again.”

  She leaned over and kissed Jesse on the cheek. “Thanks, Jesse.”

  She was out of his Explorer and disappeared in the shadows of a loading bay. Jesse watched and listened. He heard a metal door scrape and creak open, then slam shut. He waited there a few minutes to see if he could spot a light popping on in the building but couldn’t find one. As he drove away, he saw a reflection off something in an alleyway behind the factory building. He pulled over and spotted a lineup of motorcycles. They were all Harleys, their gas tanks painted a lacquered black, with a small, silver skull and crossbones painted on the right side of the tank. He thought back to the one time Anya’s boyfriend, Hank, had come with her to the meeting. A biker, yeah, Jesse could see that. Now the factory building made sense. He thought of Sharon, a waitress he’d met years ago who had gotten in too deep with a biker gang. He’d helped her out, but he wasn’t sure he had done her much of a favor. He had more hope for Anya. She was trying to change.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN JESSE WAS DRIVING THROUGH PARADISE after getting back from Boston, he was uneasy. It was quiet, almost too quiet for his liking. He knew there were forces at play here that might change his town forever and would almost certainly blow people’s lives apart. Alisha’s life for sure. Even if Vandercamp’s phantom gun magically appeared or if Monty came up with some brilliant defense and got her off, she was in for years of torment. Killing, justified or not, isn’t as easy as it seems. Unless you’re a psychopath, you pay a price.

  He was about to turn and head toward the Swap when the Bluetooth ring came across the speakers.

  “Jesse Stone,” he answered.

  “It’s me, Jesse, Gabe. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, that’s fine. What’s up?”

  “There’s a guy here waiting for you.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t think he speaks English. He just handed me your card.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  * * *

  —

  JESSE RECOGNIZED THE MAN FROM EARLIER in the day. He was the landscaper who worked for Garrison, the man with whom he had made eye contact. He seemed very nervous, but also relieved. Jesse shook his hand and invited him into the office. He said his name was Pablo.

  Jesse turned to Gabe before heading to the office. “Pablo’s visit is off the record unless I say otherwise.” Then he turned to face Pablo and repeated the same thing in Spanish.

  Pablo gave Jesse a tentative smile and followed him into the office.

  “I speak English, a little,” Pablo said, when he was seated across from Jesse’s desk.

  “Good. So, Pablo, why are you here?”

  “Roberto, he goes away the night when you and the Swan police talk to him.”

  “Goes? Where did he go?”

  Pablo shrugged. “Many of us share a house. Garrison, he comes each morning to get us. The morning . . .” Pablo turned his palms up, struggling for the words.

  “The morning after I spoke to him, Roberto was gone?”

  Pablo smiled. “Sí. Yes. He doesn’t come. I go to his room, and his things . . . some are there, some are not.”

  “Maybe he went back home or went away like Miguel.”

  Pablo frowned, his shoulders sagging. “No, Roberto is legal. He watches out for us. He would not just leave us. Something is not right, I think.”

  “Do you think Mr. Garrison—”

  Pablo stood up like he was shot out of the chair and waved his hands. “I say nothing about the jefe. I am just scared for Roberto.”

  “Okay, Pablo. Give me the address and I’ll look into it. I give you my word.”

  49

  The reports were in and Jesse read through them. The autopsy results weren’t going to do Monty Bernstein or his client much good. As far as the autopsy went, there were no surprises. As Dr. Minter had surmised upon his initial view of John W. Vandercamp’s body, any one of the three shots from Alisha’s off-duty piece could have been the fatal shot.

  The one peculiar and interesting piece of evidence Jesse found was in the forensics analysis, not the autopsy report. Vandercamp had gunshot residue on his right hand and clothing. Gunshot residue didn’t just magically appear. You needed to either fire a weapon yourself or be in very close proximity to a weapon being fired. And Alisha had been way too far away for the residue to have come from her weapon. There had to be a gun. But there wasn’t a gun.

  “Molly,” Jesse said, walking out into the main room of the station house. “Get Detective Lieutenant Weld on the phone for me.”

  She cleared her throat, loudly.

  “Please, Molly.”

  But Jesse wasn’t smiling.

  “What is it, Jesse?”

  “There was GSR on Vandercamp’s right hand and clothing.”

  Twenty seconds later, as Molly picked up the phone, Mary Weld came into the station. She had a computer case slung over her left shoulder.

  “Jesse was just calling you.”

  Weld lifted the left corner of her mouth, which Molly took for a smile.

  “He in there?” Weld pointed at the office door.

  Molly got up. “He is.”

  Weld waved Molly back down into her seat. “I can manage.”

  She knocked and waited f
or Jesse to acknowledge her.

  When Weld entered, they shook hands. She sat herself down without the usual formalities.

  “Officer Crane tells me you wanted to speak to me.”

  “I did.”

  “Let me guess,” Weld said. “The GSR.”

  “Uh-huh. There had to be a gun.”

  Weld didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she removed a notebook computer from her carrier, put it on Jesse’s desk, and booted it up. “Oh, there was a gun, all right, Chief Stone. Just not when Officer Davis said the gun was there.”

  “Am I missing something?”

  “Give me one second.”

  Weld tapped the keyboard, turned the computer so the screen faced Jesse, and pushed it toward him. She stood up, came around the desk to stand behind him, and pressed the enter key. A somewhat grainy black-and-white still image came up on the screen. The image was of a man standing behind a counter, a cash register to his left. On the wall at his back was an array of handguns and rifles of various types, calibers, and purposes.

  “This is CCTV from the Magic Valley Handgun and Rifle Range. It’s about five miles due west of here.” Weld hit the enter key again. “You’ll notice the time stamp in the upper-right-hand corner. And . . . here he comes, John W. Vandercamp, a member of the NRA, the National Association for Gun Rights, and just about every other gun organization you could name and some you can’t. He was also licensed to carry in New York state.”

  The video showed Vandercamp approaching the counter, producing items from his wallet, and having a friendly exchange with the man behind the counter. The counterman handed ear protection and goggles to Vandercamp and pointed him in the direction of the indoor range. The image switched to the range, where another employee places three gun cases, three boxes of ammo, and nine paper targets down on the stall platform. Vandercamp appears in the frame and has a brief discussion with the employee.