Death In Paradise

by Robert B. Parker

  "Anybody recognize her picture?"

  "No."

  "Tell Perkins when he goes up there, use his own car," Jesse said. "No need to make the motel look bad."

  "I still think it's a waste of time, Jesse."

  "Of course it is," Jesse said, "that's one of the things cops do. We waste a lot of time."

  Simpson left the office. Jesse stood and went to the coffeemaker and poured himself another cup. He added a lot of sugar and brought the cup back to his desk. There was a picture of Billie Bishop taped to the corner of his desk calendar. He nodded at it.

  "We're getting there," he said.

  He drank some coffee while he looked at her picture. The chances of Perkins finding anything they could use in a busy motel room a month after Billie's last visit were nearly nonexistent. Which would leave him with what he had now. He knew some facts. Billie had left Gino Fish's business phone number with the shelter. Alan Garner worked for Gino. Alan Garner pimped young runaways he picked up from the shelter. Billie was a young runaway who had stayed at the shelter. She turned up dead in Paradise. Norman Shaw lived in Paradise. Norman Shaw knew Gino Fish. Put all of that together, give it to a skilled prosecutor, who'll take it to the grand jury, and there will be no chance of an indictment. He could bust Garner and try to turn him, but the chances that Garner would testify against Gino were very slim. And it would send everybody else scurrying underground. If Shaw was in fact being supplied with very young girls, it probably would happen again. We know that, Jesse thought, maybe we can turn him. What about Joni Shaw? Could she be married to a pedophile and not know it? Did pedophiles have active adult sex lives? Joni was a lot younger than Shaw. Was she the first wife? If she wasn't, what had ended the previous marriage?

  He got up and walked to the front desk where Molly was reading an issue of Martha Stewart Living.

  "You ever read Norman Shaw's books?" Jesse said.

  "Sure. I got every one," Molly said. "He's great."

  Jesse nodded, but not as if he believed her.

  "How many are there?"

  "Ten, I think. At least in paperback."

  "You got them at home?" he said.

  "Sure."

  "I'll take the desk," Jesse said. "Go home and get them."

  "All ten?"

  "Yeah."

  Molly stared at him for a moment. But she didn't say anything. Jesse was Jesse. She dog-eared Martha Stewart, put it down, got up, and went.

  While she was gone, Jesse took a call about a missing bicycle, and a call reporting a rabid skunk and could someone come over and shoot it. Jesse took down the missing-bicycle information and left it on the desk for Molly. He called John Maguire on the radio and told him to go shoot the skunk.

  "Make sure there's no bubble gum wrappers in the shotgun barrel," he said.

  "Hey," Maguire said, "I'm a law-enforcement professional."

  "Yes you are," Jesse said. "Go enforce that skunk."

  Molly came back into the police station with a plastic supermarket bag filled with paperback books. Jesse turned the desk over to her and took the books into his office. His coffee was gone. He poured some more. Added a lot of sugar. The less booze he drank, the more coffee he drank. Jittery was better than drunk. He sat down and pulled one of Shaw's books out of the grocery bag. The title Outcast was embossed in raised gold letters on the front cover. On the back cover was a picture of Norman Shaw. He looked a lot younger in the picture than he had with his forehead resting on his grilled scrod the last time Jesse had seen him. Jesse glanced through the text. The book was 456 pages long. Jesse wasn't sure he had read a total of 456 pages in his life. In the front of the book were three pages of quotes from newspaper reviews, all of them favorable, another page listing Shaw's other books and a dedication page. The dedication in Outcast was "To Joni, who rescued me in time." Jesse looked for a date. The book had been published the year before. Jesse looked through the front matter in the other books. The previous book was dedicated "To Arlene: Toward the sunset—together." The publication dates were four years apart. Three books previous had been dedicated "To Cheryl: Till the End of Time." Jesse read a few pages of Outcast. He didn't like it. He put the books away and finished his coffee and got up and walked across the street to the Paradise Public Library.

  He liked the library. It was one of those nineteenth-century brick-and-brownstone buildings that could just as easily have been a fire station or a jail. The research librarian smiled at him as he went by the desk. She didn't seem like a librarian. She had a good body. She wore tight clothes. And she always looked at him as if they were sharing a private joke.

  He sat at a table and looked up Norman Shaw in Who's Who. He had been born in Bronxville, NY, August 26, 1945 s. Samuel G and Andrea (Vogal) L; m. Cheryl Anne Masters, June 5, 1975 (div. 1979); m. Arlene Marie Greene, April 21, 1980 (div. 1985); m. Felicia Jane Feinman, Oct. 16, 1989 (div. 1996); m. Joan Harriet Roth, May 21, 1999.

  No book for Felicia? Or a dedication to his lawyer?

  Jesse copied the Shaw entry and took it back with him across the street to his office. He handed the sheet to Molly.

  "Do your phone magic," he said. "See if you can come up with one or more of the ex-wives."

  "In between times," Molly said. "When I'm not running the department."

  "That would be good," Jesse said.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  "Are you still seeing Dix?" Jenn asked.

  They were on the footbridge over Storrow Drive, near the Hatch shell, walking toward the river.

  "I am," Jesse said.

  "And?"

  Jesse shrugged.

  "And I'm talking with him."

  "Do you feel you're making progress?" Jenn said.

  "I might be," Jesse said.

  "Can you tell me about it?"

  "No, I don't think I can."

  "It's all right," Jenn said. "Therapy's a private thing."

  "I don't mind you knowing," Jesse said. "It's simply that I don't know how to talk about it. Something's happening in there, but I'm not sure what."

  "Do you like Dix?"

  "It sort of doesn't matter," Jesse said. "He's a lot more than an alcohol counselor."

  "Yes," Jenn said.

  "You knew that when you sent me to him," Jesse said.

  "Yes."

  "Manipulative," Jesse said.

  "Absolutely."

  They went down off the bridge and started west on the esplanade along the river. College-aged kids were sunning themselves near the water, dogs chased Frisbees, small sailboats moved on the surface where the river widened into a basin.

  "Are you talking about us?" Jenn said.

  "Of course."

  "How is that going?"

  Jesse shrugged.

  "It seems to me sometimes that everything I know, I learned from you," she said.

  "But we're divorced and seeing other people."

  "I know," Jenn said.

  They crossed the lagoon on a small barrel-arched footbridge. Jesse stopped at the top of the arch and leaned his forearms on the railing. Jenn stopped beside him and leaned back.

  "The other night I really wanted to drink," Jesse said. "And I didn't."

  "Why not?"

  "I'm not sure. But I didn't. Almost always before when I felt that way, I did."

  "One robin doesn't mean it's spring," Jenn said.

  "I think you got the quote wrong," Jesse said.

  "You know what I mean."

  "Day at a time," Jesse said.

  "Easy does it," Jenn said.

  They both laughed.

  "Friend of Bill's?" Jenn said.

  Below the bridge on the lagoon three ducks with brown feathers slid along the water.

  "Friend of Jenn," Jesse said.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Felicia Feinman Shaw had remarried. Her current name was Felicia Teitler and she agreed to have tea with Jesse at the Four Seasons Hotel. Jesse wore a coat and tie, his gun well back on his hip so it wouldn't s
how if he unbuttoned his jacket. The hostess escorted Jesse to the table. Felicia Teitler was already there.

  "I'm Jesse Stone, Mrs. Teitler."

  "Please, sit down," she said.

  Jesse sat.

  "Thank you for agreeing to talk," Jesse said.

  "Actually I was rather curious," she said, "to see what aberration he's guilty of this time."

  The language was elegant, but the accent wasn't. Money can buy the language, Jesse thought, but the accent is harder.

  "He being Norman Shaw?" Jesse said.

  "Of course," she said. "What other aberrant jerk would we be here to discuss?"

  "Tell me about some of his aberrations," Jesse said.

  Mrs. Teitler was looking at her menu. The waitress hovered.

  "I'm going to have the full tea," she said.

  The waitress looked at Jesse.

  Jesse said, "I'll have that, too."

  He wasn't entirely sure what a full tea was. Mrs. Teitler put the menu down and smiled at him. She looked to be about fifty. She was very well made up, but small lines showed around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Her hair was too blond. Her skin was too tan. But what Jesse could see of her body still looked good. Her teeth were very white. Her beige suit fit her well. On her left hand she wore an enormous diamond ring. She had a small pony of what appeared to be sherry.

  "And what kind of tea for you, sir?" the waitress said.

  "Are you allowed to have coffee?"

  "Of course, sir."

  "I'll have some," Jesse said.

  Mrs. Teitler took a little sherry.

  "So what did you wish to know about Norman Shaw?" she said.

  "Whatever you can tell me," Jesse said. "We're just doing background."

  "He's done something," Mrs. Teitler said. "You wouldn't track me down and arrange to meet me, just for background."

  "You were his third wife," Jesse said.

  "Yes."

  The waitress brought Jesse a small silver pot of coffee. She poured some in his cup.

  "Why did you divorce him?"

  "Maybe he divorced me," she said.

  Jesse shook his head.

  "We checked," he said. "You brought suit against him."

  "Well, aren't you thorough."

  "And got a dandy settlement," Jesse said.

  "I earned it," she said.

  "The basis for the divorce was adultery," Jesse said.

  "Whores."

  "Only?"

  "He marries the good girls," Mrs. Teitler said, "but whores were his passion. My therapist said probably it was about ownership."

  "The more he paid for them," Jesse said, "the more valuable they were?"

  "I think he liked them young, too."

  "Younger than you?"

  "Apparently."

  Jesse smiled.

  "Do you know any of the whores?" he said.

  She shook her head. The waitress brought small sandwiches and assorted pastries and set them out. Tea was a bigger deal than Jesse had realized. He took a cucumber sandwich. Mrs. Teitler carefully put strawberry jam on a small scone and added a dollop of clotted cream.

  "I preferred not to meet them," she said. "My attorney employed a private detective and he got affidavits from four of them that Norman had paid them for sex."

  She popped the little scone into her mouth and chewed. Jesse poured himself some more coffee.

  "There were pictures, too," Mrs. Teitler said. "Norman agreed not to contest the divorce."

  "Did you see the pictures?"

  "I preferred not to," she said.

  "I'm sorry," Jesse said. "This is, ah, indelicate but I need to ask. How was he at home, sexually?"

  "Christ!" Mrs. Teitler said. "A cop who says 'indelicate.' In bed Norman was, oh, adequate."

  "Any dysfunction?"

  "You mean like he couldn't get it up?"

  "Or odd sexual practices?"

  Mrs. Teitler laughed. "Sometimes I think they're all odd," she said. "But no. He was not a maiden's dream, but he was, ah, sufficient… when he was sober."

  Jesse nodded.

  "Which was often?"

  "Less so as time went on," Mrs. Teitler said. "You get any kicks out of asking these questions?"

  "Depends on the answers," Jesse said. "Can you give me the name of the private detective you hired?"

  "My attorney hired him. Mark Hillenbrand on State Street. Hillenbrand and Doherty."

  Jesse wrote it down in his little notebook. He smiled at her.

  "How's the second marriage?" he said.

  She shook her head.

  "Two-time loser," she said. "You like older women?"

  "Sure."

  "Don't tell," she said. "Don't swell. Grateful as hell."

  "I've heard that," Jesse said.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Dick Pettler had an office over a sandwich shop on Broad Street, across the street from a Japanese restaurant. The sign on his office door read R. J. PETTLER, INQUIRIES. Jesse went in.

  Pettler was tall and bony with rimless glasses.

  "Mark Hillenbrand called me," Pettler said. "Told me you'd be coming by."

  "You did the snoop work on Norman Shaw's divorce from Felicia Feinman," Jesse said.

  Pettler smiled, his teeth gleaming.

  "I like to call it discreet inquiry," he said.

  "But you did it?"

  "Sure."

  "You got affidavits from several hookers," Jesse said.

  "I could have gotten them from a hundred," Pettler said.

  "How old were they?"

  Pettler rocked back in his swivel chair and looked thoughtfully at Jesse.

  "Pretty good question," he said.

  Jesse nodded.

  "They were babies," Pettler said. "I can't guarantee how old, but they all looked about thirteen."

  "He have an MO?" Jesse said.

  "Sure. He'd meet them in a motel, sometimes four, five nights a week. Couple times he had more than one in the same night."

  "Same motel?"

  "Usually."

  "Boundary Suites," Jesse said.

  "Hey," Pettler said, "pretty good. Yeah. Boundary Suites right there in your neighborhood."

  "He take them there?"

  Pettler shook his head.

  "Nope. When he got there, with me behind him, he'd go straight to the motel room. You know Boundary Suites?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, you know it's a lovers' hideaway," Pettler said. "Drive up to the door of the room. Go right in. No lobby to go through. Nobody to see you."

  "You know how he set it up?" Jesse said.

  "Nope. I assume by phone."

  "You know who supplied them?"

  "Nope. Not my job."

  "The girls always very young?" Jesse said.

  "Everyone I saw."

  "If I needed you in court, could you prove what you're saying?"

  "Sure. I got photos. You want to see?"

  Pettler got up and went to the gray metal file cabinet to the left of his window. He took out a folder and brought it back and put it on the front of his desk where Jesse could look through it. There were pictures of a clearly recognizable Norman Shaw and different very young women, in sexually explicit action in a motel room. Shaw looked better than he did now. His belly seemed flat and he had more hair.

  "Through the window?" Jesse said.

  "Yeah. There's a little hill behind the room. I'd go around there with a telephoto. He never shut the lights off."

  "Or pulled the curtains."

  "Maybe he liked people to watch," Pettler said.

  "Maybe you been doing this too long," Jesse said.

  "Maybe I'm right," Pettler said.

  "You never saw him pick up these kids?"

  "Nope. Never saw him pick up anybody," Pettler said. "Just showed up at the motel. Stayed a couple of hours and went home. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am."

  "You never saw anybody deliver them?"

  "Nope. Shaw was my job
. I was behind him. The broads were already there when he arrived."

  "And you don't know anything about his habits after the divorce?"

  "Nope. But I'll bet he hasn't changed," Pettler said. "I don't know shit about psychology. But I'd say this is a guy doing something he needs to do, you know? Has to do."

  "I'd like to copy these pictures," Jesse said. "I'll see that you get them back."

  "Keep 'em," Pettler said. "I still got the negatives."

  Jesse stood and put out his hand.

  "Thanks," he said.

  Pettler shook hands without getting up.

  "I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you want to know all this?" he said.

  "That's right," Jesse said. "I'm not."

  "Not my job, anyway," Pettler said.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  "We still can't connect Shaw with Billie Bishop," Jesse said.

  He and Kelly were in Kelly's car parked along Day Boulevard near Carson Beach. They had coffee in paper cups. A bag of donuts was on the seat between them.

  "Everything but," Kelly said.

  "But we still can't connect him specifically to Billie Bishop."

  "Or Billie Bishop with Alan Garner," Kelly said.

  "Or Shaw with Garner," Jesse said.

  "Shaw's the one," Kelly said.

  "You think?"

  "Yeah. The sonovabitch jumps out at you."

  "Nice if we could prove it."

  "At least we know where to look," Kelly said.

  "What we can prove," Jesse said, "is that Shaw likes young hookers."

  "And that he took them to a motel on the North Shore, and Billie Bishop checked into that same hotel."

  "Can we prove that he took Billie Bishop there?" Jesse said.

  "You tell me," Kelly said.

  "No."

  "And if we could prove he took her there, can we prove that he killed her?"

  "No."

  They were silent. Kelly took a cinnamon donut out of the bag and shook it to get rid of the loose cinnamon.

  "The only connection we've got is Garner to Shaw through Gino Fish," Jesse said.

  Kelly took a bite of the donut, leaning far forward over the steering wheel so as not to get cinnamon on himself.

  "Because Billie Bishop called Gino's phone number," he said.