Night Passage

by Robert B. Parker

  “Can you tell,” she whispered against his mouth, “that I’m not wearing anything under this dress?“

  “I wasn’t sure,” Jesse said.

  Cissy had a good body under her ridiculous dress. It was becoming difficult for Jesse to remain detached.

  “Is it something you might want to see?” she whispered.

  Christ! Jesse thought. Where’s Suit when you need him.

  “Is it?” Her mouth was against his.

  “Not right here,” Jesse said.

  “But somewhere you would, wouldn’t you. I can tell.”

  Jesse was still struggling for gallantry.

  “Anyone would,” he said.

  Cissy clamped her mouth against his and began to kiss him aggressively. Jesse felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Hasty, his bow tie blinking steadily.

  “Mind if I cut in?” Hasty said.

  Cissy continued to kiss him.

  Jesse pulled away and said, “No, not at all,” and turned Cissy, her eyes still half closed, into Hasty’s arms.

  The band began to play an old Beatles tune. He found Abby near the bar, with a martini. The bar had cleared somewhat as people danced.

  “Last Tango in Paris?” Abby said.

  “Help,” Jesse said.

  He ordered a fresh scotch from the bar.

  “How’s she stack up as a kisser?” Abby said.

  “There’s better,” Jesse said.

  “Good to know.”

  Abby’s eyes were bright and Jesse realized that she might be a little drunk too. He knew their relationship wasn’t helping her drinking. He picked up his scotch. Careful. He sipped a small sip and put the drink back down on the bar. Morris Comden, one of the other selectmen, came across the room and asked Jesse if he could have the next dance with Abby. It was the boldest thing Comden had done since Jesse had been in Paradise. At selectmen’s meetings, he sat quite still and watched Hasty so he’d know how to vote.

  “Ask her,” Jesse said.

  Abby smiled and said, “Of course,” and went to the dance floor with him. Over Comden’s shoulder on the floor, she stuck her tongue out at Jesse. Jesse smiled at her and sipped his scotch. Hasty Hathaway came to the bar.

  “Wild Turkey,” he said to the bartender. “Straight, one ice cube.”

  He got his drink and mined and put an arm around Jesse’s shoulder.

  “Wife gets a little giddy,” he said, “when she drinks.”

  “Sure,” Jesse said.

  Hasty took a drink.

  “Mother’s milk,” he said.

  Jesse nodded. The dancers labored about the floor. Most people were terrible dancers, Jesse thought. He wondered if Comden had been dispatched to dance with Abby, so that Hasty and he could talk man to man. He didn’t see Cissy anywhere.

  “Women are hard to figure, aren’t they, Jesse?”

  “Yes,” Jesse said, “they are.”

  “I guess you’ve had your share of trying to figure them out.”

  “Un huh.”

  “Being divorced and all.”

  “Still trying to figure that out,” Jesse said.

  “Well,” Hasty said, “that’s just how women are, I guess. When you want faster, they want slower. And when you want slower, they want fast.”

  Hasty shook his head.

  “You and Cissy seem happy,” Jesse said.

  “Ciss? Oh hell, sure we are. But even a happy marriage isn’t easy, is it. There are adjustments.”

  Hasty drank the rest of his Wild Turkey and ordered another.

  “Sexual problems?” Hasty said.

  “Who?” Jesse said.

  “In your first marriage. It’s usually sexual stuff that makes a marriage hit the reef.”

  “No,” Jesse said. “We didn’t have sexual problems.”

  Unless, Jesse thought, your wife boffing a producer could be considered a sexual problem.

  “What was your deal,” Hasty said.

  Jesse shrugged.

  “I’m not sure I know,” he said. “We didn’t seem to want the same things.”

  “Let’s get some air,” Hasty said.

  With his arm still on Jesse’s shoulder Hasty steered him toward the sliders and out onto the deck over the water. The strong salt smell reminded Jesse again of how far he was from home. The pacific never smelled like this that he could remember. Maybe it was the cold weather made the ocean smell different. The light from the ballroom spilled out for a little way onto the black water. There was a small chop. Across the harbor the lights of the town were strung along the coastline and rose up from the water to Indian Hill, where the park was.

  They leaned on the deck rail. Below them, Jesse could hear the water moving over the rocks.

  “Man to man,” Hasty said.

  Jesse nodded to himself. Comden had been dispatched. He was not a good choice. He was too dull to carry on a conversation. Poor Abby.

  “Your ex ever fool around?” Hasty said.

  He wasn’t looking at Jesse. Arms resting on the railing, he stared out across the water.

  “Yes.”

  “How’d it make you feel?”

  “Bad.”

  Hasty nodded.

  “You fool around?” he said.

  “Not till we separated,” Jesse said.

  “You ever wonder why you weren’t enough?”

  “Yes.”

  Hasty nodded again. He was silent for a time. Through the glass doors behind them the band had finished its set and the sound of conversation and glassware replaced the sound of music.

  “When we were dating,” Hasty said, “she was hotter than a cheap pistol. Part of the reason I married her, I suppose. I never had many girlfriends, and when I started dating her…” He shook his head at the memory. “But as soon as we got married she wasn’t interested anymore. The funny thing is when we dated we did everything but it, you know. Heavy petting, I guess you’d say. But never the dastardly deed itself. Didn’t want to cheapen the relationship.”

  Hasty laughed at himself derisively.

  “Talked a lot about saving it for marriage,” he said. “Then we got married and she wasn’t interested. You know? She’d lie back and close her eyes and think of England. But it was pretty much of a duty.”

  “I guess marriage is different from dating,” Jesse said.

  “I guess it is,” Hasty said.

  Across the harbor a small tender plugged in toward the town wharf from one of the yachts moored in deeper water. Its running lights looked like slow shooting stars in the dark. Hasty finished his drink. Jesse had already finished his.

  “I finally just decided that she was frigid and that the hot stuff before marriage was a way to get me. But you know how it is in a marriage. You figure you’re supposed to stick it out. After a while the way it is gets to seem like the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “Yes,” Jesse said. “I know.”

  “She seem frigid to you?” Hasty said.

  “Hard to say.”

  “Come on, Jesse. She embarrassed us both on the dance floor ten minutes ago. She seem frigid to you then?”

  “No.”

  “So how come she’s frigid at home, and hot with other men?”

  “I’m a cop, Hasty. That’s a shrink question.”

  “Aw, they’re all crazy themselves,” Hasty said.

  Jesse didn’t say anything.

  “Well, anyway, I’ve come to terms with it. We have our life together. Except for the sex, I like her. We get along good. What she does when I’m not home, I know she sees other men. I’m sure she’s hotter than Cleopatra with them. I… I…” Hasty made an aimless hand gesture. “We get along,” he said.

  “Whatever works,” Jesse said. “You have anyone?”

  “On the side, you mean? No.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “Anyway,” Hasty said, as if finishing a difficult chore, “I want you to know that I don’t blame you. I apologize for my wife.”

  “Sure,” Jesse said.
“No problem.”

  Again they were quiet, the two men looking at the black harbor, forearms resting on the railing, each holding an empty plastic cup in his hand. The tender had reached the wharf and disappeared. Its running lights were out. The darkness between the men and the town across the water was unbroken and palpable. Hasty clapped Jesse on the back.

  “Well, look at all that food,” Hasty said. “Better go in and get some before they eat it all up.”

  “That’s right,” Jesse said. “That’s what we better do.”

  Chapter 57

  JESSE WAS AT HIS DESK when Molly brought Bobby Portugal in.

  “Remember me?” Portugal said.

  “Sure,” Jesse said. “Have a seat.”

  “They’re cleaning out the house,” Portugal said.

  “Where you and Tammy lived?”

  “Yeah, and I had to come in from Springfield to get some stuff I left there. Probably hoping it would give me an excuse to come back. So I thought I’d stop by, see how the case was coming.”

  “Not much hard evidence,” Jesse said.

  “You got her diary?”

  Jesse was silent for a moment. Then he got up and walked around Portugal and closed the office door.

  When he was back behind his desk again he said, “Diary.”

  “Yeah. You didn’t mention it when you was in Springfield, but I figure, cops. You know? I’m not badmouthing the police, I’m just figuring you got it and don’t see reason to talk about it with me.”

  “She kept a diary.”

  “Long as I knew her, every night, last thing. Even if we had sex, when we was done, she’d write in the freaking diary.”

  “You ever read it?” Jesse said.

  “No. It was one of those leather ones with a lock on it. She wore the key on a chain around her neck. Little gold key. She had a lotta ambition. I think she thought she could write down everything she did and someday she could get someone to help her and they’d write a book about all her exciting adventures.”

  Portugal shook his head and smiled grimly.

  “Like getting knocked up by me.”

  Jesse was quiet.

  “So if you had the diary I figured it might tell you something, who she was seeing, who she went out with that night. Something. She wasn’t somebody to stay home and watch TV.”

  Jesse shook his head slowly.

  “You don’t have it, do you?” Portugal said, slowly surprised.

  “No. Did you see the drawer where she kept it?”

  “Yeah, sure. It’s what made me think of it. It wasn‘t in there. You find the key on her when you… found her?”

  Jesse shook his head.

  “You might have missed it.”

  “No.”

  “She always had it on her.”

  “She was stark naked,” Jesse said as gently as he could. “We’d have seen it.”

  Portugal sat still a minute, looking at nothing.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said after a moment, “you’d have seen it. You find her clothes?”

  “No.”

  Portugal nodded as if that were meaningful.

  “If you keep a diary for a long time,” Jesse said, “you fill up the pages. Did she keep the old ones?”

  “Yeah. I think so. She bought a new one when we got married and that’s the only one I know. She probably left the other ones home, at her mother’s house, when she got married.”

  “You think her mother took it?”

  Portugal shrugged.

  “She could have. They were in there cleaning out the place. It’s going on the market Monday. I don’t get any. They get it all. Her old lady didn’t even want me in there to get my things. She never got over me knocking up her baby girl. But the old man’s not a bad guy. He called me, told me to come get my stuff. The old lady woulda chucked it in the Dumpster.”

  Jesse tapped gently on the desktop with his fingers.

  Finally he said, “I have your phone number. I know anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “You can count on it,” Jesse said. “And I’d appreciate it if the diary was something you didn’t talk about with anybody else.”

  “Sure,” Portugal said. “No sweat.”

  “Thanks,” Jesse said.

  “I already told my girlfriend how Tammy used to keep a diary,” Portugal said.

  “Well, ask her not to discuss it as well,” Jesse said.

  “Well, since her husband don’t know about me,” Portugal said, “I guess she can keep a secret.”

  “You better hope so,” Jesse said.

  And they were both laughing as Portugal left.

  Chapter 58

  LOU BURKE WAS GETTING into his car when Jesse opened the passenger door and got in beside him.

  “Patrol supervising?” Jesse said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Mind if I ride along?” Jesse said. “I spend too much time in the office.”

  “Come ahead,” Burke said.

  Burke backed the car out of the parking lot and turned up Main Street. Between them was a shotgun, locked barrel up on the transmission hump.

  “See if there’s any gum wrappers in the barrel,” Burke said. “Peter Perkins had the car before me.”

  Jesse looked into the shotgun barrel. He blew some dust out.

  “No gum wrappers,” he said.

  “Boys don’t seem to have the proper respect for a weapon,” Burke said, “do they?”

  “Never make it in the Corps,” Jesse said.

  “You in the Marines?”

  “Semper Fi,” Jesse said. “You?”

  “Navy.”

  “What was your job?”

  Burke smiled.

  “Lot of stuff. I was a lifer.”

  “Twenty years?”

  “Yeah. This is my retirement.”

  Jesse smiled. Burke drove the car up Indian Hill Road. The startling leaves had finished turning, Jesse noticed. Many of the trees were leafless, or nearly so. And, puzzlingly, some of them still had leaves and the leaves were still green.

  “Ever do any demolition work?” Jesse said.

  Burke’s eyes shifted almost imperceptibly as he glanced involuntarily at Jesse and then looked back at the road.

  “Yeah, some.”

  Jesse nodded. At the top of Indian Hill, Burke drove the patrol car slowly into the park. It was during school hours, and it was chilly. There was no one in the park except a white-haired man in a black-and-red wool jacket walking an aging yellow Lab.

  “Funny how quiet a town is during school hours,” Jesse said.

  Burke didn’t say anything.

  “Ever been to Denver?” Jesse said.

  “Denver?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why you asking?”

  Jesse smiled at him.

  “Why not?” Jesse said.

  “Jesse, you got something on your mind, I think you just better say it right out.”

  “I am saying it right out,” Jesse said, still smiling. “You ever been to Denver?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jesse’s smile was gone.

  “When’s the last time you were in Denver?” Jesse said.

  From Indian Hill, you could see the whole harbor, uneventful in the late fall, and the old town, weathered shingle, red brick, and church steeples beside the dark water. You could see across the harbor to Paradise Neck, the big glass facade of the Yacht Club teetering over the water. And you could see across the Neck, mostly evergreen trees, with white and gray houses among them, and look at the Atlantic Ocean.

  Burke didn’t answer. He turned the car back down the hill toward the center of town.

  “When’s the last time you were in Denver, Lou?”

  Burke shook his head.

  “Drive us back to the station, Lou.”

  Burke was silent. Jesse let the silence stand. There was no reason to let Burke in on what Jesse knew. Jesse had never gotten in trouble saying too little.
The patrol car pulled into its slot outside the station.

  “I’m going to ask you to take a leave of absence, Lou.”

  Burke turned toward him and started to speak, and stopped.

  “Leave the handgun and the badge with Molly,” Jesse said.

  As they got out of the car Burke turned and looked across the roof at Jesse.

  “You sonova bitch,” he said.

  Burke’s voice was thick, as if forced out through a closing throat. And there was something in Burke’s face that Jesse felt with a force he wasn’t used to. You didn’t work South Central without seeing hatred. But the passion in Burke’s face was beyond hatred. Jesse felt something like revulsion, as if he’d seen something grotesque for a moment. He felt as if he needed to hold steady against it, the way you lean into a strong wind.

  “Gun and badge to Molly, Lou,” Jesse said.

  Chapter 59

  TAMMY PORTUGAL'S MAIDEN name was Gennaro. Her mother and father lived in a small ugly house that had once been a summer cottage, facing a swampy saltwater estuary which the local kids called the eel pond. The process of converting the cottage to a full-time home had been apparently a slow one. The rear wall of the kitchen above the sink was still unfinished, the area between the studs filled with the silvery foil backing of the fiberglass insulation.

  The kitchen table where Jesse sat was made of metal covered with white enamel. There was a small fold-up leaf at either end. The mug from which Mr. Gennaro was drinking instant coffee was formed in the shape of a gnomish-looking man with a beard, Mrs. Gennaro, in a flowered housedress and white sneakers, was at the stove boiling water, in case there was a call for more instant coffee. The sneaker on her right foot had a hole cut to relieve pressure on her small toe. She was a sturdy woman, not fat, but wide in the hips and shoulders. She had white hair which she wore in a tight perm, and rimless glasses.

  “You sure you won’t have coffee?” Mrs. Gennaro said.

  “No, thank you, ma’am,” Jesse said.

  Jesse hated instant coffee. Across the table from him, Mr. Gennaro put a spoonful of Cremora in his coffee and stirred. He was a wiry little man, no taller than his wife. He worked sometimes as a fisherman, and sometimes as a landscaper, and in snowstorms be drove a plow for the town.

  “How are you both doing?” Jesse asked.