Robert B Parker: The Jesse Stone Novels 1-5

by Robert B. Parker

  They were sitting in Macklin’s Mercedes in the parking lot near the wharf office on the town pier in Mattapoisett, about ninety minutes south of Boston.

  “You need a Northshore guy,” Costa said. “Knows the waters. I never even been up there.”

  “I don’t have a Northshore guy,” Macklin said. “You didn’t know the waters in the Mekong, did you? Besides you’re the best sailor I know who’s dishonest.”

  “Thanks,” Costa said. “Then if I’m gonna do it, I gotta have time to go up there, cruise around, look at charts. Not only around Paradise but all over that part of the coast.”

  “Sure,” Macklin said. “That’s why I’m talking to you early, give you time to plan.”

  “It’ll cost money,” Costa said.

  “You got to spend money to make money,” Macklin said.

  “I gotta buy fuel. I got boat payments. I gotta leave my ex with some.”

  “Haven’t you got anything ahead?”

  Costa laughed.

  “You talking to me about ahead?”

  Macklin shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “I haven’t got too much ahead myself.”

  “Can’t help you without something up-front,” Costa said.

  Macklin was silent. The harbor around the pier was mostly small sailboats. Some were at their moorings. Their masts bare, the boats tugging gently at the tether. Some were under sail, the mooring marked by the small boat they had rowed out to it. Two kids were fishing off the end of one of the two stone piers. A big old Chris-Craft with gleaming mahogany trim was refueling in the slip between the piers.

  “Whatta they catching?” Macklin said.

  “The kids? Scup if they’re lucky. Blowfish, mostly.”

  “They good to eat?”

  “Scup is, but not the blowfish. Kids like to haul them in, get them to inflate, and skip them on the water.”

  “There’s a good time,” Macklin said.

  “You know what kids are like.”

  “No,” Macklin said. “I don’t.”

  They were quiet. A rowboat pulled in to the pebbled beach to their right, and two men got out in knee-deep water and dragged the boat up onto the landing area above high tide. The men left the rowboat there and took the oars. The Chris-Craft finished refueling and began to inch out of the slip.

  “Okay,” Macklin said finally. “I got five grand I can spot you.”

  “Cash,” Costa said.

  “Whaddya think? I’m going to write you a check?”

  “I don’t like to leave nothing to chance,” Costa said.

  “I could enter the notation: advance on robbery loot,” Macklin said.

  “You got it on you?”

  “No.”

  “When do I get it?”

  “You drive the boat up . . .” Macklin said. Costa began shaking his head before Macklin finished his sentence. “And I’ll pay you when you get there.”

  “Me and the boat stay right here,” Costa said. “Until I get the five.”

  Macklin had known Costa a long time. He was just as he looked. He was squat and strong with thick hands and dark skin that had cured darker in a lifetime on the water, and he didn’t change his mind. Once his mind was set, he plowed right through anything in his way—including the law. Costa wasn’t scared of Macklin. Costa probably wasn’t even scared of Crow. You had the choice of his way or kill him, and Macklin wasn’t prepared to kill him yet.

  “I’ll be here Monday noon,” Macklin said.

  “With the cash?”

  “With the cash.”

  “Good,” Costa said.

  “When can you get up there?”

  “To Paradise?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You gimme the cash Monday noon, I’ll leave Tuesday morning. Go through the canal.”

  “Good,” Macklin said.

  Costa nodded. He got out of the car and closed the door. Macklin put the Mercedes in gear, backed up, U-turned, and drove away. In the rearview mirror he could see that Costa hadn’t moved.

  Chapter 22

  Copley Place was a high-end, upscale, vertical mall in the middle of Boston. It looked like every other high-end, upscale, vertical mall Jesse had ever seen. When you were in Copley Place, Jesse thought, you could be anywhere in western civilization. He had been in Copley Place for three hours, trailing behind Jenn, carrying bags, feeling like a husband, and rather liking it. But he knew he would have to tell her the secret thing he had done, and he was afraid. Usually Jesse could put the fear away, know it was there, but function around it. This fear nearly paralyzed him.

  “You must be making the big buck,” Jesse said.

  They were sitting beside the waterfall near the top of the escalator in the middle of the second floor.

  “I get a clothing allowance,” Jenn said. “And I haven’t spent it all yet. Are you bored?”

  “No,” Jesse said. “I like to be with you.”

  Jenn smiled. But the smile was automatic, Jesse thought. She was looking at the display in a window down the mall.

  “What do you think of that little suit?” Jenn said, “With the chalk stripe.”

  “It would look good on you.” Jesse took a breath. “I followed you the other night when you were out with Tony Salt.”

  Jenn kept looking at the chalk-striped suit for a moment, and then slowly she turned her head toward him.

  “You followed us?”

  “Actually I staked out your apartment. I saw you come home with him. I saw him go in.”

  “And?”

  “He spent the night.”

  Jenn sat back against the bench and kept looking at him.

  “Jesse,” she said finally, “how . . . how goddamn dare you?”

  Jesse clenched himself and held tight.

  “I don’t know,” Jesse said. “I’m ashamed of it.”

  His voice was steady. Jenn continued to look at him. A woman brought her two small children to the waterfall and let them throw pennies in it. Then she moved on. The kids didn’t want to leave. There was an argument. The kids cried. The woman finally dragged them away.

  “You . . . have . . . the . . . right,” Jesse said slowly, “to . . . date who . . . you wish and . . . spend the night with . . . who you wish.”

  “Yes,” Jenn said. “I do.”

  “I don’t know why I did that,” Jesse said.

  “I don’t know why you’re telling me,” Jenn said.

  “Because it’s the truth.”

  “Do I have to know all the truth?”

  “I don’t know,” Jesse said, “but I have to tell you all the truth.”

  Jenn smiled. “Well, at least you know it’s about you and not about me,” she said.

  Jesse stared at the artificial waterfall cascading discreetly into the artificial pool.

  “I won’t do it again,” Jesse said.

  Jenn could see the way his jaw muscles bunched at the hinges.

  “Tell the truth?”

  Jesse shook his head.

  “I have to do that,” he said. “I won’t spy on you again.”

  “Why do you have to tell me the truth, even if it’s a bad truth?”

  Jesse shook his head as if to clear it. Jenn remembered his doggedness. It was a good quality sometimes, she thought, but not always.

  Jenn asked again. “Where does it say you have to always tell me the truth?”

  “No secrets,” Jesse said.

  His voice sounded as if it were being forced through too narrow an opening. God, this is hard on him, Jenn thought. She leaned over and patted his forearm.

  “It’s hard, Jesse,” she said. “You’re fighting the booze, you’re fighting this. It’s hard.”

&nb
sp; “I don’t win this fight, I may not win the booze fight,” Jesse said and wished he hadn’t as soon as he heard it.

  “I know, but I can’t help you with that,” Jenn said. “I can’t be with you so that you won’t drink.”

  “It was the wrong thing to say. Following you was the wrong thing to do.” Jesse laughed angrily. “I’m on a roll.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Jenn said.

  “It was the wrong thing to do,” Jesse said.

  “Of course it was, but it hasn’t changed anything. I’m not going to give up on this because you once acted like a jerk.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “You don’t act like a jerk too often anymore,” Jenn said.

  Jesse grinned at her without any happiness in the grin.

  “I’m not sure I like the ‘anymore’ part,” he said.

  “How about, you never act like a jerk when you’re working,” Jenn said.

  Jesse nodded. “It’s why I work,” he said.

  Chapter 23

  When Macklin came in the front door, Faye jumped into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist. She was wearing a silk robe and nothing else.

  “Whoa,” Macklin said. “Let me at least get the door closed.”

  He held her easily.

  With her face a half inch from his Faye said, “Welcome home. Wanna fuck?”

  “Well, yes,” Macklin said, “as a matter of fact I do.”

  She pressed her mouth against his and held it there while he carried her to the bedroom and put her on the bed. She held on even after he put her down.

  “Faye,” he said as he pulled away from her. “I need to get my clothes off.”

  “Well, be quick about it,” Faye said as she untied her robe.

  She was very inventive and experimental. She liked to try different positions. Whenever she heard of a new sexual trick or an innovative device, she was eager to try it. There was something joyous in her sexuality. Macklin always thought of her as laughing while they had sex, though he knew she didn’t really. When they were through, they lay together on her bed and stared at their reflection in the mirrored ceiling.

  “That calm you down for a while?” Macklin said.

  “For a while,” Faye said. “You hungry?”

  “For crissake, Faye,” Macklin said. “One appetite at a time. Let me sort of rest up.”

  “I’ve got supper ready whenever you want it.”

  “You serve a nice hors d’ouevre,” Macklin said.

  “You get the people you want?”

  “Yeah, Crow was the most important one. Now I got JD for wiring, and Fran for explosives, and Freddie Costa for the boat.”

  “That means a five-way split,” Faye said.

  “Unless some of them drop out,” Macklin said.

  Faye met his eyes in the mirrored ceiling.

  “You think that could happen?”

  Macklin smiled and shrugged at her. “Could,” he said.

  Still looking at him in the ceiling, Faye said, “You’re a heartless bastard, Jimmy.”

  “Not all the time,” Macklin said and patted her thigh.

  “No,” Faye said. “Not all the time.”

  She put her head against his shoulder, and they were quiet together. Faye knew that it wasn’t quite right, what he’d said about “not all the time.” He loved her, within his limits, but Jimmy wasn’t capable of a lot of feeling. What he could feel most sharply, she knew, was excitement and boredom, and his life was mostly seeking one to avoid the other. It was why jail was so hard on him. She knew that she didn’t know what he did to fight boredom in jail, but she knew Jimmy and what excited him was risk. She knew that the odds were good that he’d risk too much someday. And, she knew that he would be unfaithful. It had nothing in his emotional world to do with loving her or not. It had to do with opportunity and conquest. She hated knowing it, but she was a woman who had learned early in life that things were so whether she wanted them to be so or not. And she knew that she loved him and that he would never leave her, and she would take what there was and make as much of it as she could. Looking up at the two of them lying naked on her bed, Faye thought that probably that was what life was, taking what you could get and making the most of it.

  “What’s for supper?” Macklin said.

  “Pork and pepper stew,” Faye said. “And I made a big pitcher of sangria.”

  “Faye,” Macklin said, “you’re the best.”

  Faye knew he meant it, even if he couldn’t say she was the only.

  “Yes,” Faye said. “I am.”

  Chapter 24

  Jesse’s office was crowded. He was there at his desk. And seated to his right was Nick Petrocelli, the new town counsel. In front of them, in a broad semicircle, were the two Hopkins boys, their father, Charles, their mother, Kay, and their lawyer, Brendan Fogarty. Beyond them was Carleton Jencks, Sr., Carleton Jencks, Jr., known as Snapper, and the Jencks lawyer, Abby Taylor. Earl gave Jesse the finger while pretending to scratch his upper lip. He and Robbie both smirked. Snapper was expressionless.

  “As you know, Stone,” Fogarty said, “and, as I warned you, the District Attorney’s Office has decided that your case against these lads is so tainted by the way you treated them that they won’t bring it to trial.”

  Jesse was motionless, his swivel chair tipped back, while he looked at Fogarty the way he had learned to look at gangbangers in South Central. The stone-faced stare that every big city cop masters his first month in a black and white. To his right Petrocelli was equally motionless, looking bored, staring out the side window at the late gathering evening. He was a dark, slim young guy who wore glasses with big, thick black frames. Jesse wasn’t sure about him. Petrocelli had graduated from Harvard Law not very long ago and put in time as a prosecutor in Suffolk County, before he joined a big Boston firm as a litigator. He had moved to Paradise after that and become pro bono town counsel when Abby Taylor resigned. But he wasn’t thirty yet, Jesse was pretty sure. There was about him a hint of Ivy League condescension, and in the few times Jesse had been with him, he seemed bored in his duties. Fogarty, Jesse noticed, responded to Petrocelli with inadequately concealed amusement. Even Abby, who, except in certain areas that Jesse knew of, was the essence of propriety, seemed heedless of Petrocelli. On the other hand, Jesse thought, the price is right.

  “And,” Fogarty went on, “it is that same precipitous treatment of these boys that has brought us here tonight. We intend to bring suit, for false arrest and imprisonment.”

  Jesse turned his stare from Fogarty for a moment and looked at Abby Taylor. She nodded.

  “We are part of the suit, Jesse,” she said.

  Jesse didn’t speak. His stare rested heavily once again on Fogarty.

  “Do you have anything to say?” Fogarty asked.

  Jesse glanced over at Petrocelli.

  “Nick?”

  “It’s America, Jesse, say whatever you want.”

  Jesse nodded as if that were sage advice. He kept nodding slightly as he looked carefully at each of the people seated in front of him.

  “What are you all doing here?” Jesse said.

  “I told you,” Fogarty began.

  Jesse interrupted, “Nobody had to come here for that. You could have sent me a notice in the mail,” Jesse said. “Why are you here?”

  “Well,” Kay Hopkins said. “I can tell you why I’m here.”

  Her husband said, “Kay . . .”

  “Don’t you shush me, Charles,” Kay bore on. “I wanted to look right into the eyes of the kind of man who would mistreat two little kids.”

  “Mistreat?” Jesse said.

  “Arrested falsely, imprisoned falsely, frightened to death? What would you call it?”

 
“You guys frightened?” Jesse said to the Hopkins brothers.

  “Oh sure,” Earl said. “We was scared to death, wasn’t we, Robbie?”

  “Scared to death,” Robbie said and giggled slightly.

  Jesse nodded and looked at their mother.

  “Don’t you talk to them,” she said.

  “You don’t want them talked to, what’d you bring them for?”

  “I wanted them to learn that the system does work. That they have parents who will stand up to it and make it work. That police brutality is unacceptable.”

  “You feel the same way?” Jesse said to Charles Hopkins.

  “I feel my sons were badly treated,” Hopkins said. “I want to see justice done.”

  “How ’bout you, Jencks?”

  “I haven’t decided what I’m here for yet,” Jencks said. “I’m listening.”

  Jesse leaned back in his chair a little farther. Petrocelli seemed almost asleep. He had one elbow on the edge of Jesse’s desk and was resting his chin on his fist. He didn’t appear to be looking at anything. Jesse surveyed the parents. Charles Hopkins wore a good suit and tie. He was a slim unathletic-looking man, who parted his hair low on the left side and swooped it up over his bald spot. His wife was just overweight enough to make her chic business suit ride a little at the hips. She had a lot of blond hair and considerable eye shadow and a hard mouth. Snapper’s father was a big man with square hands and a crew cut. His neck was thick. He wore desert boots and khaki pants and a white short-sleeved dress shirt open at the neck. His forearms were muscular.

  “So what have you guys learned so far?” Jesse said.

  “That you can’t push us around and get away with it,” Earl said.

  “That’s what I learned too,” Robbie said.

  Jesse looked at the parents.

  “Good enough?” he said.

  “No,” Kay Hopkins said. “I demand that you apologize to these boys.”

  “Mrs. Hopkins,” Fogarty said and put a hand out as if to keep her at bay.

  “We hired you, Fogarty,” Kay Hopkins said. “You didn’t hire us. I’ll talk when I want to talk.”

  “Mrs. Hopkins, as your attorney . . .”