Trouble in Paradise js-2

by Robert B. Parker

  "I was just..."

  "JD, the whole fucking island is a hostage. We don't need to lug one around with us."

  "Didn't you tell me she's the chief's girlfriend? It might help if we hung on to her."

  "It might," Macklin said.

  "Go ahead and bring her." He broke the connection.

  In the real estate office, JD stared at the silent cell phone.

  "Prick," he said.

  Marcy sat quietly behind her desk. Her hands folded on top of it. She could see that JD was tense. His movements were stiff and too quick. He stared out the window. Fran was walking back toward them from the wreckage of the bridge.

  "Okay," JD said.

  "You're going with us."

  "Where?" Marcy's voice rasped, and she cleared her throat.

  She'd heard JD's end of the conversation.

  "Just get in the fucking car, lady. I got no time to explain things."

  "I'm not really the chief's girlfriend," Marcy said. Her voice was still raspy. She couldn't seem to get it clear.

  "You're fucking him, aren't you?"

  Marcy didn't answer. JD gestured at her with his handgun.

  "Come on," JD said.

  "Get in the car."

  FIFTY-FIVE.

  It was an overcast day, and the water in the harbor was darker than the sky. Jesse was onboard the town boat with Suitcase Simpson, Anthony De Angelo and Peter Perkins. Simpson, De Angelo and Perkins wore vests and carried shotguns. lesse had neither. Phil Winslow, the harbor master, held the boat at an angle across the chop, steering for the yacht club landing dock that jutted out into the harbor.

  "Only place I can put you ashore, Jesse," Winslow said.

  "The rest of the damn island is all rock and surf. I can't get within a hundred yards."

  "Maybe they don't know that," Jesse said.

  "No way they would unless they explored it," Winslow said.

  "Most people buy onto an island like this, they want beaches, you know? But Stiles Island uses the ocean like a Christly moat."

  "It's working," Jesse said.

  "Are you guys enough?" Winslow said.

  "Have to be," Jesse said.

  "Don't have that many left. Molly's at the station, Arthur and John Maguire are securing that end of the bridge, and I don't know where Eddie Cox is."

  "Sears and Pope?" Winslow said.

  "Probably dead," Jesse said.

  "Jesus."

  They were in the middle of the harbor now, past the cluster of pleasure boats moored in closer to the dock. Winslow turned the boat north, running parallel with Paradise Neck, heading for Stiles Island. Sound traveled over water, and even this far from the scene Jesse could hear the sirens of the fire and emergency vehicles still arriving at the scene of the explosion, cops from neighboring towns, probably some state cops. Molly would get them organized.

  Ahead of them Jesse could see the fanciful cornices of the yacht club, white and pink, with a playful balcony across the second floor and a high-peaked red roof. Stiles Island people were very proud of it. Jesse thought it looked like an eighty-dollar-a-night motel in Flagstaff. The landing dock was actually a kind of catwalk set on pilings that went out nearly the length of a football field into the harbor. At the end of the catwalk, down a short flight of stairs, was a wide float anchored to the bottom and tethered to the catwalk pilings. There was enough play in the anchor chains so that the float rolled gently with the movement of the harbor. There was a resting bottom up on the float. No one was in sight. Winslow aimed the nose of the town boat straight at the float. As Jesse watched, the float began to heave and then it and the catwalk elevated as the sound of the explosion rolled across the water to them. The float turned over twice in midair. The empty drums that helped it float tore loose and scattered across the water. The catwalk disintegrated in midair, and the pieces seemed to hang there, as the float drifted down and landed bottom side up in the suddenly frantic water. The town boat pitched as the waves reached it, and Winslow wrestled the wheel around to stay stable. The silence after the explosion seemed louder than silence could be. It was underscored but not dispelled by the sound of the boat engine and the now turbulent ocean slapping against the hull. Winslow throttled back and held the boat sideways, idling, in the deep swells. No one spoke for a moment.

  Then Jesse said, "Bad guys two, cops zip."

  Winslow said, "What do you want me to do now, Jesse?"

  "You know anyplace else to land?"

  "No."

  "Who would?"

  Winslow shrugged.

  "Maybe there ain't a place," he said.

  "There'll be a place. Who knows the harbor better than you?"

  "Can't say anybody does," Winslow said.

  "Then let's go back to town," Jesse said.

  The boat made a wide turn, and Winslow throttled up for the run back to the town wharf.

  Suitcase said, "Usually get three strikes, don't you, Jesse?"

  "At least," Jesse said.

  FIFTY-SIX.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," Macklin said, holding the 9-mm almost negligently at his side, "as you no doubt have figured, the shit has hit the fan, and it is time for us to go. We thank you for your patience, and your valuables."

  The bank employees stood silent, standing close together as if for warmth.

  Behind him, Fran was carrying the last duffel bag out of the vault toward the stairs to the street where JD held the van with its motor running.

  "Okay," Macklin said.

  "We need some hostages for a while."

  He looked at Crow.

  "Gimme five women. They're less trouble."

  Crow moved in among the employees and cut out the five hostages. They moved numbly, not knowing what else to do.

  "We won't need them for too long," Macklin said.

  "We'll let them go when we leave. The rest of you want to run around after we've left and free some of your friends and neighbors," Macklin said, "go right ahead."

  He grinned and scanned them.

  "Any questions?"

  No one spoke.

  "Hasta la vista."

  He turned and nodded at Crow and the two of them walked from the vault. No one in the vault moved. Macklin and Crow walked upstairs and through the empty bank, moving the women before them the way dogs move sheep. Crow's van was parked at the bank entrance right behind Macklin's Mercedes. JD and Fran were leaning on the van. Both had shotguns, and both men had a pinched look to their faces. Marcy was sitting on the floor in the back of the van. Crow herded the five women into the back of the van with her.

  "What are they for?" JD said.

  "Hostages," Macklin said.

  "We already got her," JD said, nodding at Marcy.

  "Can't have too many," Macklin said.

  In the back of the van, crouched on the floor among the loaded duffel bags, a very young plump woman with a lot of frizzy blond hair began to cry. An older woman with gray hair in a tight perm, and horn-rimmed glasses on a strap around her neck, put her arm around the young woman and patted her shoulder. Marcy watched silently. You'll get used to it, she thought. She was, after all, a veteran hostage. She had several hours experience on these women.

  "It's going to be all right," the older woman said.

  "It's going to be fine."

  Maybe, Marcy thought, and maybe not. Macklin looked at JD and Fran.

  "Are we having fun yet?" he said.

  "How long you think, Jimmy, before the cops get here?" Fran said.

  "Long as it takes to get a big chopper up here and put a SWAT team on it."

  "What if they do it quick?" Fran said.

  "That's why God made hostages," Macklin said.

  He looked at the Mercedes.

  "Got to leave you here, old buddy," he said to the car.

  "Goodbye."

  He raised the 9-mm and turned his head away as if in grief and shot through the hood of the car. He laughed loudly. Fran glanced at Crow. Crow's face showed nothing.
r />   "Come on," JD said.

  "Let's get to the boat."

  Macklin looked at his watch.

  "We're too quick," he said.

  "Got four hours still to high tide."

  "We got to sit here and wait four hours?" Fran said.

  "Sit someplace," Macklin said.

  "You feel better sitting by the rendezvous, fine with me."

  "So let's go," Fran said.

  "Stop standing here out in the open."

  Macklin looked at Crow and said, "These boys just haven't learned how to have fun."

  "Scared," Crow said.

  "No pain, no gain," Macklin said.

  Crow nodded and laid the shotgun crossways on the dashboard and got in behind the wheel. JD and Fran scrambled into the backseat and Macklin, after a last look around, like a tourist leaving a favorite resort, climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door. The women crouched in the cargo space behind them. The one who had been crying was silent now.

  "How much you think we got?" JD said, as the van moved along the empty street.

  "The houses? The retail stores? The bank? The safe deposit boxes?" Macklin said.

  "Six, eight million maybe? Whaddya think, Crow?"

  "I think we need to count it when we got time," Crow said.

  "What if Freddie's not there?" Fran said.

  "He'll be there," Macklin said.

  "Freddie always does what he says. It's what makes him such a bad hard-on."

  Macklin was drumming his fingertips lightly on the tops of his thighs. His eyes were bright and seemed to be opened wider than normal. His toes tapped the floorboards of the van in time with his fingertips.

  "But what if he's not?" Fran said.

  Macklin shifted a little in the seat so he could look straight at Fran.

  "Fran, we just pulled off the mother fucker of all heists, you understand? This is a time to be cool and feel it and kick back and like it. This ain't a time to be whining."

  "Fran's got four kids," Crow said.

  "Shoulda thought about that when I invited him in," Macklin said.

  "I did," Fran said.

  "Then shut the fuck up," Macklin said.

  "You don't have to talk to me that way, Jimmy," Fran said.

  "I'll talk to you anyway I want," Macklin said.

  "Got to understand," Crow said gently.

  "Jimmy isn't doing this for the money. That's just the way he keeps score."

  "You don't have to talk for me, Crow," Macklin said.

  "The real thing he does it for is this, the charge, the danger, the goose it gives him, you understand? He does it same reason people do downhill skiing or sky diving. This is like getting laid for Jimmy, and right now when he's just ready to come, you're spoiling the feeling."

  "What the fuck are you, Doctor Spock?" Macklin said.

  Crow paid no attention to him.

  "We'll pull this off or we won't," Crow said.

  "And worrying out loud about it ain't going to do you any good, and it's going to piss Jimmy off really bad."

  "And that won't do you any fucking good either," Macklin said.

  Crow didn't say anything else. Fran was silent and so was JD.

  Macklin resumed his finger drumming and toe tapping as they left the little downtown and swung onto Sea Street.

  FIFTY-SEVEN.

  When Jesse walked into the station with Simpson, De Angelo and Perkins, Molly was working the switchboard and covering the front desk.

  "There's a guy from the Coast Guard on his way, Jesse," Molly said as he walked in, "and a State Police SWAT guy in your office."

  Jesse said, "Thank you, Molly. Anthony, go find Doc Lane and bring him here."

  "The bartender at the Gull?"

  "Yep. If he's not working, ask the restaurant for his address. Peter, go find me a wet suit, medium. And some kind of waterproof equipment flotation. If you can't find anything closer, there's a place in Belmont on Trapelo Road."

  "Flotation?"

  "Yes. Go. Get it. Bring it back. Now."

  Perkins and De Angelo left the station. Suitcase stayed with Jesse waiting to be told what to do. Jesse nodded toward his office, and they went in.

  The SWAT team commander was a lean guy with round glasses and a crew cut. He put out a hand.

  "Ray Danforth," he said.

  "Jesse Stone. The big kid here is Suitcase Simpson."

  "Lighter color than I remember you," Danforth said.

  Suitcase looked blank. Danforth turned to Jesse.

  "I got my men standing by at the explosion site," Danforth said.

  "We got a mobile operations van on the way. What can you tell me?"

  "What I know is that somebody blew the bridge to Stiles Island.

  Somebody also blew the landing dock at the yacht club on Stiles.

  No one has heard from the Stiles Island Security patrol since last night, and all the phones on Stiles give a busy signal when you call them."

  "What do you guess?"

  "A guy named Wilson Cromartie and a guy named James Macklin and probably some others are on the island. I assume the motive is robbery."

  "How they going to get off the island?"

  "Don't know."

  "People on the island?"

  "Far as I know, about a hundred."

  "I'll get a hostage negotiator up here," Danforth said.

  "Good. Let's not get any civilians killed," Jesse said.

  "We got a traffic helicopter should be here anytime," Danforth said.

  "And a transport chopper if we need one. That'll take a little longer. We got to fly it in from Hanscomb Field."

  "Better call it up. We don't want to have to wait for it when we need it."

  "Will do," Danforth said.

  "What's your plan?"

  "I might go ashore."

  "Alone?"

  "Yeah. Might be a good idea to have someone on the ground."

  "Police chiefs don't usually do that kind of work," Danforth said.

  "This is a small-town department," Jesse said.

  "It's sort of informal here. We all pitch in."

  "You don't have anyone else you'd trust?" Danforth said.

  "Or you don't want to ask anyone else?"

  Jesse shrugged.

  "Whatever," he said.

  "Who's going to run the department?"

  "Molly," Jesse said, "and Suit." He nodded at Simpson.

  "I ought to come with you, Jesse," Suitcase said.

  "You stay here. Molly shouldn't have to run it alone."

  "You remember what that cop said in Tucson," Suitcase said.

  "I'm not going up against anyone," Jesse said.

  "I'm just reconnaissance, you know? I'm just going to scoot around in the bushes and see what I can see and radio it back."

  "I could cover your back," Suit said.

  "You're too big to scoot around in the bushes," Jesse said.

  "You go with Lieutenant Danforth. Molly will stand by in the station, and I will have a look see on the island."

  "How you going to get there?" Suitcase said.

  "I'm working on that."

  "Doc?"

  "He's been around this harbor all his life," Jesse said.

  "You going to have him put you in the water?"

  "Probably," Jesse said.

  "And?" Suit said.

  "And we'll see," Jesse said.

  FIFTY-EIGHT.

  The helicopter came up from the south east, across the causeway to Paradise Neck' and then across the harbor. It hovered for a time over the explosion site, then banked suddenly and flew down the Stiles Islam coast and paused again, this time over the boat house explosion.

  It moved away from the yacht clut and began unhurriedly to fly back and forth over Stiles Island, looking at what there was to look at. Across the emptj span where the bridge had hung, there was a gathering of trucks and automobiles and people. The helicopter paused again over the small downtown where people were gathered in the stree
t, looking up, then moved on toward the open ocean side of the island where the restaurant was located.