“I’ve got stuff to make omelets,” he said, “but that’s about it.”
“I’ve eaten a lot of eggs since I started at Daisy’s, but if that’s all you got, sure.”
Jesse stepped into the kitchen and waved for Cole to follow him in.
“How is it working there?”
“Daisy’s good to work for. She doesn’t expect anything of me she won’t do herself. Let’s face it, she didn’t have to let me stay at the restaurant. She didn’t have to hire me at all.”
“You guys get along?”
“Yeah,” Cole said without hesitation. “She is one of the only people I ever met who doesn’t bullshit me.”
Jesse laughed. “It’s not in her. Gets her in trouble sometimes.”
“People are screwed up like that. They’d rather get lied to.”
“You always want to hear the truth?”
“No, I’m just tired of liars.”
“Everybody’s a liar, one way or the other.”
Cole smirked. “Even the Paradise chief of police?”
“Uh-huh. Even him,” Jesse said. “What do you like in your omelet? I’ve got pancetta, Jack, cheddar cheese—”
“Pancetta?”
“It’s Italian bacon. It’s not smoked like American bacon.”
“Pretty fancy stuff for a cop.”
“A woman I knew liked it in her omelets. I learned to like it.”
“What happened to her?” Cole asked. “She dump you?”
“She was murdered.”
Cole looked gut-punched and, for the first time since they’d met, Jesse caught a glimpse of the wounded little boy beneath the veneer of rage and disdain.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“That’s okay, Cole. I didn’t want to lie to you.”
“Still—”
“Forget it,” Jesse said, putting the omelet pan on the stove and throwing in some butter and olive oil. “I also have chorizo, onions, and peppers.”
“Onions, Jack cheese, and chorizo.”
Jesse diced some onion and threw it in the pan, and when the onions became translucent, he broke up the bright red sausage into crumbles and watched them brown.
“How long ago did it happen?” Cole asked.
“Not too long. We were engaged. Some days it feels like yesterday. Others, a million years ago.”
Cole apologized again.
“No,” Jesse said, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, “it’s really okay. This is Diana.”
He handed the phone to Cole.
He stared at the photo for several seconds. “She is—was beautiful.”
“She was all of that. Smarter and braver than I’ll ever be.”
Jesse broke three eggs into a mixing bowl, added a touch of cream, whipped them up, added salt and pepper. He poured the eggs over the onions and sausage. He flipped the omelet over, laid two pieces of Jack cheese down the center, and folded the omelet into a half-moon, sliding it onto a plate.
“All I’ve got to drink is water or soda water.”
“Water’s fine. Thanks. Aren’t you going to eat?”
“No, I’m good. Let me ask you something. You getting any of the Saviors of Society eating at Daisy’s?”
His mouth full, Cole nodded. When he swallowed, he said, “A few, yeah.”
“How did Daisy react?”
“She told me their money was as good as anyone else’s and that as much as she hated what they stood for, she wasn’t a hypocrite. She said that if she refused to serve them, it would give power to people who didn’t want to serve people like her.”
“How were they, the people you waited on?”
Cole shrugged. “They just seemed like people eating lunch or breakfast. They didn’t try to recruit me or anything.”
“That’s the problem with evil,” Jesse said.
“What is?”
“The people who practice it look like everybody else.”
Cole laughed. “My mom always said the devil wouldn’t have horns, but that he’d look like the mailman.”
“Smart woman.”
Cole smiled, but then his old self returned. “Thanks for the food,” he said, picking up his plate and bringing it to the sink. “I’m going to bed.”
58
Jesse could see some resemblance between Clarissa Vandercamp and her late son. John W., like James Earl, had Leon’s eyes but otherwise didn’t share much in the way of looks with his father or brother. Clarissa Vandercamp was a sturdily built woman, blond, with high cheekbones and sad eyes. Jesse guessed the sad eyes were inevitable. He wondered if the sadness was in her even before her son’s death. She was younger than he expected. She was certainly too young to be James Earl’s mother, as they seemed to be about the same age.
Jesse came out from behind his desk to greet her. Molly stood behind the woman, off to one side.
“Can we get you anything?” Jesse asked.
Clarissa Vandercamp stared directly into Jesse’s eyes. “Justice for my boy,” she said, a quiver in her voice.
Leon Vandercamp’s pleas and protestations always sounded like sound bites or propaganda to Jesse, as if microphones were recording his every word or a large audience was listening. With Clarissa Vandercamp, it was personal. Jesse led her to the seat facing his desk.
“Would you like some water or coffee?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” she said, her voice steady. She turned toward Molly. “Does she have to stay?”
“It’s policy,” Jesse said. “What can I do for you?”
“I think I already made that clear.”
“Mrs. Vandercamp, I’m sorry, but I have nothing to do with the investigation into your son’s death. I thought your husband would have told you.”
Her skin flushed and her mouth went from sad to angry. She tried to wipe the look away before Jesse could see it but was unsuccessful.
“I haven’t seen Leon,” she said. “I’ve been on the road for hours and came here first thing.”
“I’m sorry. Are you sure you don’t want coffee?”
Clarissa Vandercamp looked at Molly. “Black with two sugars, please.”
Jesse nodded for Molly to go ahead.
“The investigation is being headed by the state police,” Jesse said as he wrote. “This is the number of Detective Lieutenant Mary Weld. She’s the person you need to speak to about your son’s death.”
“Thank you. I’d like to see my boy now.”
“Are you here alone, Mrs. Vandercamp?”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything or that it’s your business.”
Jesse said, “No matter how prepared you think you are for this, there’s no way to be ready. And your son’s been the subject of an autopsy. That makes it worse for some people. It might be easier if you weren’t alone.”
Her face, which only seconds before had been red with anger, blanched. Jesse noticed.
“Maybe your husband can meet you there, or James Earl.”
The mention of James Earl’s name changed Clarissa Vandercamp’s expression yet again.
“James Earl’s a good-for-nothing and he’s not mine.”
Molly came back into the office. “Here you go,” she said, handing Clarissa Vandercamp the coffee.
“Thank you.”
“You can go, Molly,” Jesse said.
Molly gave Jesse a stern look. “Are you sure?”
“Go ahead, but stay close.”
Jesse waited for Clarissa Vandercamp to take a few sips of coffee before he spoke again.
“I didn’t think James Earl could be your son, but—”
“Both James Earl and Lee are Gloria’s boys. Gloria was Leon’s first wife.”
“Divorced?”
�
��Dead.”
Curious as he was, he didn’t think it was appropriate to interrogate a grieving mother. But he was interested in the mention of a third son.
Jesse said, “You mentioned another son, Lee?”
She made that face again. “James Earl’s the oldest, but he’s always been a screwup. Lee Harvey, now, he was Leon’s pride and joy until he went and joined up.”
“‘Joined up’?”
“Enlisted in the Army right after the 9/11 conspiracy. Gotta give the Israelis and the Saudis their due. Had almost everybody fooled, but Leon saw right through that, the way they got together and got us to fight their wars for them.”
Jesse kept calm, ignoring the conspiracy theory. “Lee enlisted?”
“Leon and I were just newly married back then, and Johnny . . .” She stopped, bowed her head, and swallowed hard. “John was so young. Lee had just turned eighteen and there was nothing Leon could do to stop him—not legally, anyhow. Doesn’t mean he didn’t try. He told Lee that it was all a big lie and that he wouldn’t really be fighting for us. Told Lee that the Army was a sewer, full of nig—blacks and all types of inferior peoples. But Lee wouldn’t listen to reason. They didn’t talk for years after that.”
Jesse wanted to push her but decided to let it go for now. “Are you sure you don’t want someone to go with you. Molly can—”
She stood. “No. I’m okay, but I would appreciate you calling ahead.”
“I’ll do it right after you leave.”
Molly stepped back into Jesse’s office after he was done speaking to the ME.
Molly asked, “How was she after I left?”
“She’s a believer and a grieving mother. Molly, do me a favor.”
“Sure, Jesse.”
“Try and get hold of the U.S. Army service records for Lee Harvey Vandercamp.”
“Lee Harvey as in Lee Harvey Oswald?”
“Makes sense. James Earl, John Wilkes, Lee Harvey.”
Without another word, Molly turned and left.
59
Jesse had time to start digging. Since he was convinced that all of the incidents in recent weeks were connected, he decided to go back to the beginning, to the incident at the bar between Alisha and the bikers.
The Scupper was located in the heart of the Swap and, for many years, was as close to a dive bar as you were going to find in Paradise. Over the years, a thousand names were carved into its booths and walls, and it still smelled like cigarette smoke twenty years after smoking had been banned. It had once been the favorite haunt of the fishermen who lived in the Swap and who had once been a huge part of Paradise’s economy. It was also traditionally the place where the fathers of Paradise brought their sons for their first legal drinks. Lately, it had become a place where the few hipsters in town crossed paths with the Boston transplants. The O’Brien family had owned it for all the years Jesse had been chief, and it was Joey, the oldest of the O’Brien children, who had been tending bar and called the PPD the day the bikers came into town.
There was no one seated at the bar or in the booths when Jesse got there. Joey O’Brien was behind the bar cutting fruit, a towel slung over one shoulder.
He nodded. “Jesse.”
“Joey.”
“Johnnie Black? You want it straight up or with club soda? As you can see, I got plenty of limes.”
“How about some club soda and two of those lime wedges?”
O’Brien half smiled at Jesse and winked knowingly. “One day at a time, huh, Jesse?”
“That obvious?”
“Only to a fellow traveler,” Joey said.
“How long?”
“Going on two years now.”
Jesse gave the barman a skeptical look. “C’mon, Joey, we had a couple of snorts together a few months ago.”
Joey gave Jesse a full smile and pulled a half-empty bottle of expensive bourbon off the shelf behind the bar. He grabbed two rocks glasses and poured doubles in both.
“Go ahead, Jesse, pick it up, take a slug.” Joey didn’t wait for Jesse, grabbed the glass and took the double in a single gulp. When he was done, he took Jesse’s glass and drank it down, too. Then he laughed. “It’s tea. You brew it just right with the right blend of leaves and it looks like good bourbon. As a bar owner, it doesn’t help the image not to drink with the customers.”
He fixed Jesse’s soda and lime. “If you’re not here to drink, what can I do for you?”
“A few weeks back, when those bikers were in town, you called the PPD.”
“Sorry, Jesse, I meant to ask, how’s Alisha doing?”
“Not so good. I can’t talk about it.”
“I understand, but man, those bikers were pushing her hard,” Joey said. “I don’t think I could’ve controlled myself the way she did. Then one of them called her a—the n-word. I guess that set her off a little. I would’ve smacked the guy after that.”
“You don’t have surveillance cameras in here, do you?”
Joey shook his head. “Only on the back door and the alley.”
“You wouldn’t have the footage from that day?”
“Give me a day or two and I can check.”
“Can you describe any of the bikers?”
Joey shrugged. “They looked like bikers. I don’t know. The men were bald—most of them, anyway. They wore black leather jackets and black boots. You know.”
“How many?”
“Ten. Maybe fifteen. I wasn’t counting. Sorry.”
“No problem. You didn’t know something would happen.”
Jesse sipped his club soda, giving Joey O’Brien time to think. As a detective, Jesse had learned that there was a time for rapid-fire questions and a time to ease off the pedal. Silence and time could be more effective than pressure or threats. It worked.
“You know the funny thing, Jesse?”
“What?”
“Thinking about it, they acted kinda strange. When they first came in, they behaved themselves. Just went over there in those back booths,” Joey said, pointing to his left, “and ordered a few pitchers. Then it was almost like showtime.”
“‘Showtime’?”
“I don’t know. I know this sounds stupid, but it seemed staged. All of a sudden one of them stands up and starts spewing crap about mixed races and religion. It was like he was trying to provoke a fight. That’s when I called. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just remembering it wrong or my mind’s put it together that way.” He shrugged again. “But when Alisha showed up, their focus turned just to her. Almost like they expected her to come. I’m not sure that helps any.”
“Me, either, but thanks.” Jesse finished his soda, stood, and waved to Joey.
“I’ll check on that footage for you. And, Jesse . . .”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good for you, man. Life’s better without alcohol in it.”
“Better not let your customers hear you.”
“Most of them can handle it. We can’t.”
Jesse left the Scupper, walking out of the dark bar into the sunlight. He wasn’t sure what Joey had to say about the bikers was any help beyond reinforcing his belief that everything that had gone on recently was of a piece. He also wasn’t sure about that other thing Joey had said. As far as Jesse was concerned, the jury was still out on whether his life was any better without alcohol in it.
60
It had been a long time since Jesse had seen or spoken to anyone in Anthony deAngelo’s family. For the first few years after he was killed, there had been a lot contact between the PPD, Paradise town officials, and the family, but everyone had since moved on. It was the nature of things. Word was Anthony’s folks had retired to the Carolinas somewhere. His wife had remarried and moved down to Chelsea.
Every time one of his cops would tell a story involving Anthony, or sometimes on the date markin
g the anniversary of his murder, Jesse would consider calling deAngelo’s parents or his wife. He could never think of what to say or how to make it not be awkward. It was strange how he had managed to be a comfort to so many homicide victims’ families but couldn’t find the words for Anthony’s family. Maybe that was why it had taken him this long to check on Drake Daniels’s story about having grown up with Anthony and about how Anthony had shared the details of Tammy Portugal’s murder.
Once again, Jesse had thought about calling but decided dropping by the address in Chelsea on his way to the AA meeting at the Episcopal church was the right thing to do. Sophia lived near Mary O’Malley Park in a red-brick house in the Admirals Hill section of Chelsea. Jesse parked his Explorer on the street and in the fading daylight rang the doorbell.
“Coming,” said a woman on the other side of the door.
When the door pulled back, both Sophia and Jesse stood in silence.
“Chief Stone?” She tilted her head, trying to make sense of the man at her door. “Jesse, what are—I’m sorry, come in. Come in.”
“Hello, Sophia.”
He offered his hand as she moved to embrace him, and then, seeing each had misread the other, switched. They stopped and laughed. They hugged. Jesse followed Sophia into the kitchen.
“Sit. Sit. Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. “I’m getting dinner ready for the kids.”
“No, thank you.”
They exchanged the expected small talk. Sophia explained about how she had met Ronnie on a dating site and that they had hit it off immediately. That Ronnie had a good job at an investment banking firm and that they had two kids, both boys, the oldest named Anthony. Ronnie insisted. Jesse kept it simple, talking mostly about Molly, Suit, and Peter. He kept the conversation far away from his personal life.
“So, Jesse, not that I’m not glad to see you, but why are you here after all this time?”
“Do you remember if Anthony ever mentioned a friend named Drake—”
“Drake Daniels,” she said, making a face not unlike Clarissa Vandercamp had made at the mention of James Earl. “I remember Drake.”
Robert B. Parker's Colorblind Page 18