“Yet,” said the soldier. “The kid is weak and has a big mouth.”
“Agreed.”
“Would you like me to make a move on Stone, sir?”
“Possibly, but not just yet. There are intermediate steps to be taken first. If you catch my meaning.”
“I do, sir.”
“The father and the son will be at work together in several hours. I will see to things. As to the other matter we discussed. Have you taken care of it?”
“I have. It’s is built and operational.”
Leon Vandercamp stepped forward, reached out his hand, and stroked Lee Harvey’s face. “With John W. lost and James Earl lost to himself, you’re all I’ve got left, son. You’re a good boy. I am sorry for what happened between us.”
“Yes, sir” was what Lee Harvey said before about-facing and disappearing into the woods.
* * *
—
JESSE SAT ON THE COUCH in such a way that Ozzie Smith might look over his shoulder at the old photos. Most of the shots on the top of the box were of Jenn and him. It was odd how he felt about her these days. There was a time when he couldn’t think of her or hear her name without his insides knotting up. Even after the love had gone away, she’d kept a strange and powerful hold on him. Now he smiled at the good memories and waved off the bad ones. She was happily married, and the dysfunctional energy that once bound them together was gone.
In the next layer of photos were the shots with the women he had dated between the time he had arrived in L.A. and when he had met Jenn. His memory was accurate. There were many, many shots of him in uniform with various women. As he looked at the photos, he smiled. It surprised him that he could remember all of their names, how and where they had met, and where they had gone on their first dates. First dates were almost never to the movies, because the only movies Jesse loved were Westerns, and even back then there were hardly any being made.
There were a few photos with women sitting in his lap, but only one that fit the description Connor Cavanaugh had given. He was right. Celine was a beautiful woman. She was a trauma room nurse at UCLA Medical Center who lived in Woodland Hills. Cops and nurses, like that ever happened. Jesse put the other photos back in the box. He took the one of Celine and him in his back pocket.
68
Jesse’s cell phone vibrated off his nightstand and thumped to the hardwood floor. It was the thump that woke him up.
“What is it?” Jesse said, his voice still thick with sleep.
“Jesse, it’s Brian.”
“Brian?”
“Lundquist. You better get over here.”
“Where’s here?”
“The Cummingses’ gas station.”
“Why, they file a complaint against me for bothering the kid?”
“Just get over here.”
There was a click on the other end of the line.
Jesse got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and threw some cold water onto his face. Fifteen minutes later, he was showered and dressed. He knocked on the spare bedroom door on his way out, but Cole was already gone to work. Whatever they had to discuss could keep. Whatever Lundquist had to discuss, apparently, could not.
* * *
—
EVERYTHING ABOUT THE CUMMINGSES’ PLACE cried murder: the state prowl cars, the unmarked cars parked every which way, the stunned and curious looks on the faces of bystanders, and the crime scene tape. But nothing more so than the ME’s car and the meat wagon. Jesse had seen too much of both lately to suit him.
He pulled his Explorer up next to Lundquist’s car, got out, and ducked under the tape. Once he stepped through the convenience store’s door, Jesse knew his sense of things was right. Whether real or imagined, Jesse tasted the metallic mist of blood still suspended in the air. But he needn’t have relied on his sense of smell or taste, because there was blood and brain spatter all over the wall behind the counter. A big man like Suit, Lundquist was hunched over the counter, speaking to someone blocked from Jesse’s view. Dr. Minter, no doubt. One of Lundquist’s men walked up to Lundquist, tapped him on the shoulder, and pointed at Jesse. Lundquist waved Jesse to come on.
“Take a look,” Lundquist said.
Jesse leaned over the counter and saw the ME squatting next to Gary Cummings Jr. He had collapsed in a lifeless bundle of flesh and bone, his right leg caught beneath him, his left leg splayed out at an unnatural angle. He was missing his right eye and a big chunk of the back of his skull. He didn’t seem nearly as arrogant or full of himself in death. Nothing so humbling, Jesse thought, as a bullet through the brain. Bullets cared little for bravado or pretense.
“The father’s in the back,” Lundquist said. “One through the back of the head. Most of his face is gone.”
“Hollow-points.”
“Looks that way.”
Jesse noticed that the kid’s sidearm was still holstered. “The father’s sidearm still in its holster, too?”
Lundquist nodded.
“Well, you should have it all on video. They’ve got a—”
Lundquist wasn’t nodding any longer. “No video. I checked. Been turned off.”
“What? Doesn’t make any sense. Why would they turn the video off?”
Lundquist shrugged.
Jesse was thinking to himself aloud. “Not unless they were asked to turn it off.”
“What did you say?” Lundquist was curious.
“Look, both of these guys were experienced with handguns and the kid was the type who would have been looking for any excuse to pull his weapon and fire. But both of them are here, bullets through their heads, and the surveillance system turned off. What does that say to you, Brian?”
“A lot of things, possibly.”
“One of them being what?”
“They knew the assailant.”
“I vote for that one.”
Lundquist wasn’t buying, not yet. “Big leap for someone who’s been on scene for all of three minutes and hasn’t even had a good look. What makes you so confident?”
Jesse tilted his head, motioning toward the front door. “We need to talk.”
“Okay, let’s step outside and take a walk.”
They went around to the side of the store.
“All right, what’s up, Jesse?”
“John W. Vandercamp and Gary Cummings Junior knew each other. On the day Vandercamp was killed and was shooting at the Magic Valley Handgun and Rifle Range, Cummings was shooting in the lane right next to him, even though the rest of the range was empty.”
“You know this how?”
“For now, just take my word for it.”
“For now. But this proves what?”
“By itself, nothing. Still, don’t you find it odd that the Cummings kid knew John Vandercamp but the father showed me video of John Vandercamp buying the kerosene used to burn the cross on the Patels’ lawn? If they knew him, why show me the tape at all? And if they were going to show me the tape, why not just identify him?”
“We’re never going to know the answer to that now,” Lundquist said.
“That’s my point. I was in here this morning around midnight and confronted the Cummings kid about Vandercamp. I almost had him talking, but a woman came in to buy some gas and beer. By the time she left, the kid had regained his senses.”
“So even if Vandercamp and Cummings knew each other, what does it prove?”
“That homicide scene in there, does it look like a robbery to you?”
Lundquist said, “Money is missing from the register.”
“That’s not what I asked you, Brian.” Jesse didn’t wait for an answer. “Looks more like an execution staged to look like a robbery.”
“What if it does?”
“All I know is something doesn’t add up. They show me video of a kid buying kerosene. They claim t
hey don’t know him, but they in fact do. When I’m here, the father pointed out that all of their people were licensed to carry firearms because they were never going to be robbed again without a fight. Yet eight hours after I connect Cummings Junior to Vandercamp, both Cummingses are murdered during a robbery without drawing their weapons and the video system just happened to be shut off. C’mon, Lundquist.”
“Let’s say I accept your version of things. What does it add up to?”
“I don’t know yet, but it proves there’s more going on here than a series of unlikely coincidences.”
“I can’t deny that.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Guy who called it in says he thinks he saw a green Jeep passing him in the opposite direction when he was turning into the gas station, but it was still pretty dark out and he can’t be sure if the Jeep was coming from the station.”
That’s when it hit Jesse. He thanked Lundquist and left without another word.
69
Molly was resting her head in her hands, and when she looked up to see who was coming through the station door, Jesse saw that she was bleary-eyed and yawning.
“Anything happen last night?” he asked.
“Nothing. Garrison stayed in his office until about nine, then went home. I sat on his house until midnight. He didn’t go anywhere. Bedroom light went on at eleven and I saw the TV flickering. When the flickering stopped and the light went off, I stuck around another half-hour to make sure it wasn’t a ruse.”
“Good.”
“What’s the old expression about the cobbler’s kids going shoeless? Garrison’s lawn was dead and the hedges overgrown.”
“And the contractor’s house is always the one in the worst shape. How about the military records on Lee Harvey Vandercamp?”
That perked Molly right up. “Funny you should mention that. I’m getting the runaround.”
“I thought you had good sources, Crane.”
“I usually do.”
“What do you think it means?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I can’t be sure, but my guess is Lee Harvey probably did either classified stuff or the dirty jobs we never get told about.”
“I’ll make a call,” Jesse said.
“Anything on your front?”
“A lot.”
Jesse told Molly about the gun range, his visit with Gary Cummings Jr., and the murder scene he’d just been at.
“Holy sh—oot! You know Suit trailed Leon Vandercamp to a gated community in Swan Harbor. Want to take a wild guess at who lives there?”
“Who?”
Molly smiled and said, “The Cummingses. Suit couldn’t trail Vandercamp past the gate but checked this morning before he came on.”
“When I was at the murder scene, I realized two things that I should have realized before.”
“What’s that, Jesse?”
“How did John Vandercamp get from the gun range to the Gull? And, if we’re working on the assumption that his appearance in front of the Gull wasn’t happenstance, how did he know Alisha was there?”
“You’re right. Someone had to be watching her.”
“Check all the local cabs and car services. My guess is there won’t be any record of him being driven from the range to town. Have we had any reports of abandoned cars in the restaurant or business lots in town?”
“Not for months.”
“Then unless John W. Vandercamp flew, someone drove him. Get as much surveillance camera footage from local businesses as you can.”
“Okay, Jesse, but what am I looking for?”
He thought about it for a second. “Start with a green Jeep, and if you come up empty, we’ll see.”
In his office, Jesse sat with the phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder, his right index finger hovering above the numbered keypad. Jesse usually wasn’t a man to care about what the person on the other end of the phone would think of him, but this wasn’t usually . . . not even close. He punched in the number and waited.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation, Special Agent Rosen speaking, how may I help you?”
“Abe, it’s Jesse Stone.”
The silence that followed was as uncomfortable as silences could get. Abe had been a colleague of Diana’s and had been in love with her for years, though nothing had come of it. Like Diana’s family and just about everyone else, Abe held Jesse responsible for Diana’s murder and for letting her killer escape. Of course, what Abe could never know, what all of them could never know, was that her killer hadn’t escaped at all and had died a very long and torturously painful death.
“What?” Abe said at last. “This have anything to do with what’s going on in Paradise?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It must be important for you to call me for a favor.”
“You know it is.”
“What is it?”
“We’re getting the runaround with the military. We’re trying to get ahold of Lee Harvey Vandercamp’s service records.”
“Nice family, the Vandercamps.”
“If you like cockroaches.”
“Cockroaches are what they are,” Rosen said. “The Vandercamps choose to be what they are.”
“Good point.”
“I’ll get those records for you.”
“Thanks, Abe. I know you’re not inclined to help me.”
“She loved you, Jesse. That gets you some credit with me.”
“Thank you.”
“You ever think about her?”
“Every day when I get up in the morning and every night before I close my eyes.”
“Me, too,” Rosen said, then hung up the phone.
70
Jesse drove his Explorer across the bridge to Stiles Island and Dylan Taylor’s cottage. He sometimes forgot how beautiful Paradise and the surrounding area could be. When he first arrived in town and for many years after, he was struck by the differences between the stark desert allure of his Tucson youth, the seductive, hypnotic blue of the Pacific, and the rocky, white chop charm of the Massachusetts coast. It was easy to think about beauty when remembering Diana.
Jesse had been careful to avoid Alisha since the evening of the shooting, but after getting off the phone with Abe Rosen, he arranged a meeting. Dylan Taylor’s cottage on Stiles, away from the press corps’ prying eyes, seemed the logical choice. Monty Bernstein’s Porsche, Dylan’s Range Rover, and Alisha’s Miata were parked on the gravel driveway. Jesse parked around back.
“Nice place,” Jesse said when Dylan greeted him at the door.
“Like the Range Rover, it comes with the job. Come on in.”
Monty Bernstein waved at Jesse, but Alisha didn’t seem to know what to do or how to react. Jesse took care of that himself. He walked over to her and shook her hand, making sure to hold on to it and to squeeze it so that she knew he was with her. It was better than him trying to express it with words. She understood.
“Thanks, Jesse,” she said, staring up at him. “Dylan told me what you’re doing for me.”
“I’m just trying to do what’s right. If what you say is true, you don’t deserve to get railroaded.”
“You believe me?” she said.
“I believe the evidence, and I don’t think Weld had all of it when she made her findings public.”
They all gave Jesse perplexed looks. He told them about the connection between Vandercamp and Cummings and the murders earlier that morning. Monty Bernstein got a glint in his eye.
“Finally, something,” the lawyer said, raising his hands to the ceiling.
“But what does it mean, Jesse?” Alisha asked.
“I don’t know yet, but I can accept only so many coincidences. I was there last night, pushing the Cummings kid hard, and now they’re dead. Another coincidence. Sorry, not buying. They shut off their
security cameras and their weapons were still holstered. They knew the person who executed them. I’d bet on it.”
“But it doesn’t help my client,” Monty said.
“No, but it’s creating room for doubt, and that’s something I hear you’re pretty skilled with, Counselor.”
Monty smiled his expensive white smile.
“Even Weld will have to wonder about the Cummings murders,” Jesse said. “It won’t take much more for one of us to find something out and get her to reopen the investigation.”
“But, Jesse,” Dylan said, “you wanted to talk to Alisha. Was it about this?”
“No. I wanted to go over the statement she made to Weld about what happened that night.”
Alisha frowned at hearing that. “I’ve been over this a thousand times with them. Please don’t make me—”
He raised his palms to her. “I understand. What I’m interested in isn’t what you said to Weld. I’m interested in what you didn’t tell her.”
Alisha jumped to her feet, anger replacing her hurt. “Are you accusing me of something, Jesse?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Of what?”
“Of being human and following your training.”
“I’m confused, Jesse.”
“It’s simple,” he said. “I trained you and you’re the daughter of a cop. You’ve been told to never add anything to an answer, to never embellish or fill in details that weren’t asked for. I know. I told you that myself. And as a human, there are things you might have wanted to say during your statement that made you feel foolish or were embarrassing, so you didn’t say them. I’ve been at this a long time, Alisha, and I know there’s always something else or something more. You’re not in court now and you’re with friends. Is there anything you didn’t tell Weld? It doesn’t matter how insignificant it seems or how silly.”
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