Robert B Parker: The Jesse Stone Novels 1-5

by Robert B. Parker

  “You know she’s always backed me politically,” Comden said.

  Jesse nodded.

  “And her husband is financially well connected.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Bastard doesn’t help you, Morris thought. He never helps you. He just sits there.

  “Charlie makes a difference in a town like this,” Comden said. “And I’ve been very privileged to call Charlie my friend.”

  “And supporter,” Jesse said.

  “Charlie has supported me, and Kay has worked very hard for me.”

  The office was quiet. Occasionally there was the sound of traffic going by on Summer Street. And the sound of a door shutting somewhere down the hall.

  “And, ah, now, damn it, Jess they’re asking for my support.”

  “And?”

  “And I think they have a right to it.”

  Again the room was silent. Jesse was perfectly still in his chair. Comden was unable to say anything else.

  Finally Jesse said, “Well if that’s all you got to say, Morris, nice talking to you.”

  “Jess . . . I . . . they, ah, want you to resign.”

  “I’m sure they do,” Jesse said.

  “They’re adamant.”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  “Jesus, Jess . . . Will you resign?”

  “No.”

  “They are prepared to go all the way with it.”

  “I’m sure they are.”

  “I . . . I can’t promise where I’ll come down on this issue, Jess.”

  “I know where you’ll come down, Morris,” Jesse said gently. “Without Kay’s support and Charlie’s money, you can’t get elected, and being a selectman in Paradise is the only thing you ever achieved. Otherwise you’re just a badly dressed inconsequential dork.”

  “Jess, you got no business talking to me that way.”

  “And you’ll be trying to get me fired, so Kay Hopkins will be grateful and Charlie Hopkins will help you keep your job and you won’t have to go on welfare.”

  “Jess, damn it, don’t you see I’m trying to talk some sense here? You resign. I’ll see that you get an excellent recommendation, anywhere you apply.”

  “There’s a couple things, Morris. It will be hard to fire me. Talk with Nick Petrocelli about that. And two, I’m like you. I’m only good at one thing, and this is it. If I’m not doing this, what the hell am I? A guy with a drinking problem that can’t get his marriage straightened out.”

  “I thought you were divorced,” Comden said.

  “So I’m not going to resign,” Jesse said. “Just like you, I’m going to hang on as hard as I can to the only thing that seems to work in my life.”

  “Well, you don’t leave me much choice, Jess.”

  “I don’t have any to leave you, Morris.”

  “I wish it wasn’t this way, Jess.”

  “Sure.”

  Comden had risen and was standing uneasily. He had every intention of being tough as nails. But he felt as if Jesse’s stare was pushing him backward.

  “I hope we’re not enemies, Jess.”

  “The hell we’re not,” Jesse said.

  “We’re both just trying to do our job,” Comden said.

  “Think about it anyway you want, Morris. We’re enemies, and I don’t want you in my office anymore.”

  Comden opened his mouth, couldn’t think of anything to say, stood there open-mouthed for an indecisive moment, and then turned and went out. Jesse sat staring after him.

  “And if you keep calling me Jess,” he said out loud in the empty office, “I’ll cut off whatever small balls you have.”

  Comden didn’t hear him, but Jesse liked saying it anyway. It made him smile to himself in the quiet office.

  Chapter 38

  He had them together in Faye’s living room for the last meeting.

  “You got the bridge rigged?” Macklin said to Fran.

  “Yep, JD and I been under there all week.”

  “How long will it take you to blow?”

  “From the time you say go? A minute.”

  “Yacht club landing?”

  “Yep. Pretended I was working on a boat.”

  “How about the phone lines?” Macklin said.

  “Same thing,” JD said. “I hit the cut-off switch, and they’re dead.”

  “Which kills the alarms.”

  “Yes. But it won’t kill cell phones,” JD said. “Or car phones. You can’t cut the island off completely. Somebody’s going to make a call.”

  “It’s about odds, JD,” Macklin said. “It’ll probably be a while before anyone gets to a cell phone. We try to buy as much time as we can before they find out. When they do find out, if we’re not done then, Fran dumps the bridge. Then it’ll be another while until they can get boats organized. And it’s a lot easier to keep the cops pinned down if they’re coming in a boat. Sooner or later they’ll get there. But we only need about twenty-four hours. And if we have to, we buy time with hostages. Everything we’re doing is temporary. We delay them for a day. We buy ourselves twenty-four hours, and we can clean the island out and be gone. I like our odds.”

  At the periphery of the group, which was where he always was, Faye thought, Crow smiled slightly, as if he knew a joke no one else knew.

  “I don’t like our odds,” JD said.

  “Well, of course,” Macklin said. “Nobody likes odds, for crissake. Everybody likes a sure thing. But there isn’t any sure thing. All there is are good chances and bad ones. This is a good chance. A good chance here to be rich for the rest of our lives. Is that worth taking a run at?”

  “I got four kids,” Fran said.

  “And you got a chance to make them rich,” Macklin said. “We got a great plan, we got the best guys for the job, and it’s time to do it.”

  No one said anything. Crow was still smiling slightly.

  “Can’t have anybody pulling out now,” Macklin said.

  “Nobody’s pulling out,” Fran said.

  “ ’Course not,” Macklin said. “Just the precombat jitters before we hit the beach.”

  Faye realized suddenly that Crow was looking at her. She met his look, and she realized that he knew what she knew. She knew that Jimmy was never the planner he thought he was, that now he was riding the crest of a manic wave that would sweep him right into the operation. She had tried over the months to rein him in and keep him grounded, but she knew finally she couldn’t. He loved the action too much. He loved to be the leader. He loved to think of himself as a kind of master strategist, coolly going into battle with exactly the right troops, with every detail meticulously covered, with the enemy outwitted. But she knew better. Jimmy managed to get the feeling without actually doing it. Like masturbation. And she realized for the first time that Crow knew the same thing she did. That Jimmy was maybe more George Custer than U. S. Grant. Mostly he got by on craziness and courage. The sandwich platter was empty, and Faye picked it up and took it to the kitchen. Crow drifted out behind her and got some ice from the freezer and added it to his glass. He leaned on the counter and sipped his drink.

  “Can you pull this off?” Faye said.

  Crow shrugged. “Jimmy thinks so,” he said.

  “Jimmy’s enthusiastic,” Faye said.

  Crow smiled.

  “Maybe it’s not as sure a thing,” Faye said.

  “Maybe.”

  “You scared that it’ll go bad?”

  “I’m not scared,” Crow said.

  “But you think it might go bad.”

  “Might.”

  “So why are you in it?”

  “Why not?” Crow said.

  Faye looked at him for a while and knew that there was too big a gu
lf for her to bridge. All she could do was ask.

  “If it goes bad, will you look out for him as much as you can?”

  Crow smiled at her.

  “Sure,” he said.

  Faye finished arranging more sandwiches on the platter. Crow swirled the ice slowly in his glass.

  “You’d be better off with somebody else, Faye.”

  “I love him,” she said.

  “Appears so,” Crow said.

  They continued to stand, with their private knowledge holding them.

  “You’re going to go through with it,” Faye said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Lot of money,” Crow said.

  “Just that?”

  “And I said I would.”

  “And if it goes bad?”

  Crow shrugged and smiled down at her.

  “Might be a good day for dying,” he said and took a sandwich off the platter.

  Chapter 39

  The condominiums in this part of the Navy Yard were elevated, with parking below. Jesse parked in a space with someone’s name and condo number on it, under the building next to the one where Harry Smith’s Mercedes was parked. The name on Smith’s parking slot was Prentice, and the number was 134. Jesse was driving his own car and wearing jeans and a baseball hat. From where he sat, slouched in the front seat, he could see the front door of condo number 134. He didn’t know why he was there exactly. There was just something wrong with Harry Smith. He said he was from Concord, but his car was registered in Charlestown. A lot of people moved without changing their car registration. And the fact that he was parked in a spot that had another name on it was hardly criminal. Maybe his wife kept her maiden name. Maybe the condo was his wife’s, and he’d moved in with her when they got married. Which might have been recently. Still it was better to sit here and see what was up with Harry Smith than sit around the station house taking calls from Abby.

  Abby had been ferocious in bed, as if by the force of her desire, she could make him love her. He shouldn’t have slept with her. He knew that. It sent her a mixed message. Wiser to have driven her home. But not human. Jesse liked sex, and he accepted as fact that it would sometimes lead him to do things that were unwise. On his deathbed, he was pretty sure, he would not be regretting the women he’d made love with. Abby had cried this morning, full of regret, embarrassed that she’d gotten drunk, frightened of her remembered intensity. Jesse had been steadfast. He had never lied to her, and she knew it. Jesse patted her shoulder and wondered if he’d sleep with her again.

  A tall, bony guy with red hair pulled back in a ponytail stepped out onto the small wooden entry porch of condo 134 and lit a cigarette. Thank you for not smoking.

  Whether he would sleep with Abby again was not pressing. He was after all also sleeping with Marcy and at least once with Jenn. Probably he would sleep with Jenn again. One was never sure about anything with Jenn, except that the prospect of sex with her made all other sex merely a speculative abstraction. He smiled to himself. It was easier to think calmly about sex when it was abundant.

  The door to condo 134 opened, and Mrs. Smith came out and handed the red-haired guy a drink. Mrs. Smith was good-looking. Jesse smiled at himself again. The appeal of strange stuff. It would be fun to party with friends in the late afternoon like that and stand on the porch and have a drink and look at the harbor. The red-haired guy took a last drag on his cigarette, flipped it into the ocean, and followed Mrs. Smith inside. The door closed. Jesse looked at his watch. It was getting on toward cocktail time for him. He could wait. And when he got home, he could have a couple. Having a couple of drinks at night gave him something to look forward to all day. And no harm to it, as long as he controlled it. He seemed to be controlling it, mostly. He was pretty sure he wasn’t an alcoholic, or at least not an alcoholic anymore. If he could get really in comfortable control, he’d be halfway home. Then all he’d have to do was get in control of Jenn . . . or himself. Maybe, if he got really in control of himself, he wouldn’t have to control Jenn. He could control his reaction to her. And if he could do that, he thought maybe he wouldn’t have to be so much of a cop so much of the time.

  The door opened again, and four men came out of condo 134. One of them was the red-haired guy; another one might have been an American Indian. There was something about the Indian. They got in a maroon Chevrolet van and drove away. The van had Arizona plates. Jesse took down the number. Just because he was there and he could. Just gathering information. That’s like a cop’s job description, Jesse thought, just gathering information. Is it important? I don’t know. Can you use it? Beats me. Why do it? Why not.

  Jesse stayed where he was until after 7:00. Neither of the Smiths came out. Jesse needed a drink. And he had a date. He started up and drove down the wharf, and past the navy yard where the marine sentries still stood guard. At City Square, where the density of the old city had been leveled as part of a project begun before Jesse had come east, he went over the Charlestown Bridge and turned right onto Causeway Street, where they were tearing down the Boston Garden, past the single tenement left from the west end reclamation that had been completed long before Jesse came east. He saw nothing that made him optimistic about future reclamations. He went behind the new Fleet Center and past the old registry building and the old Suffolk County Jail now defunct, under the up ramp to the central artery, which was heading for extinction, and onto Storrow Drive. The Charles River was on his right. He hadn’t been east that long but he had learned to like the river, the city, which had been old when Los Angeles was founded. He turned off Storrow at the Arlington Street exit. He found a parking space on Jenn’s street and walked toward Jenn’s apartment in the pleasant darkness, just like a regular suitor.

  Chapter 40

  Marcy Campbell had just unlocked the office when Harry Smith came in with an interesting-looking man who might have been an American Indian. He was carrying a long gym bag. Marcy was not particularly pleased to see Harry Smith. She was beginning to think he was a deadbeat. A guy who looked and never bought, maybe even, a guy who looked, never bought, and merely wished to core the real estate lady. Oh well.

  “Good morning, Harry,” Marcy said.

  “Hi, Marcy.”

  He turned the OPEN/CLOSED sign in the front window to CLOSED, closed the venetian blinds, took a 9-mm pistol from under his coat, and pointed it at her.

  “Get up please, Marcy, and lie facedown on the couch.”

  “Harry, what the hell are you doing?” she said.

  “Just do what I tell you, and quickly.”

  The interesting Indian-looking man put a long gym bag down beside the couch. Then he straightened and looked at her without any expression.

  “Why do you want me to lie on the couch?” Marcy felt the bottom of her stomach begin to sag.

  “You weren’t so slow to flop last time I saw you, Marce,” Harry said. “Crow.”

  The Indian stepped over to the desk, took Marcy’s arm, jerked her out of the chair, and spun her onto the couch facedown. He held her there with one hand between her shoulder blades while he took some rope from the gym bag. Quickly he tied her hands behind her back. She could feel her skirt gathered halfway up her thighs. When he finished tying her hands he smoothed the skirt down to where it belonged and then tied her ankles together.

  “Harry, why are you doing this?” Marcy said. She could feel the panic rising in her throat. “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Already did it, Marce, already did it,” Harry said.

  He was looking out the window through the small space between the blind and the casement frame. The Indian took some gray duct tape from the bag, tore off a strip, and taped her mouth shut. He put the rope and the duct tape neatly back in the bag and, without any apparent effort, turned her over onto her back. He slid one of the cou
ch pillows under her head and adjusted her so that she looked comfortable. Then he picked up the gym bag and went to the window where Harry was standing. He took a shotgun out of the gym bag. Harry turned from the window and the Indian replaced him. Harry came and sat on the edge of the couch where Marcy lay.

  “You breathe all right?” Harry said.

  Marcy nodded.

  “Good. You have any trouble, make some noise, and we’ll check on you,” Harry said. “We’re going to be here for a while. Use this as sort of a headquarters. I don’t think you’ll have to be tied up too long.”

  He stood and went to the washroom and looked in. There was no window. He turned back to Marcy.

  “You got to go to the bathroom, make some noise about that. We’ll untie you and let you close the door. You understand?”

  Marcy nodded.

  “Fine.”

  Harry turned away and went and sat in the swivel chair behind Marcy’s desk. He put the pistol on the desk, looked at his watch, picked up the phone, and dialed.

  “It’s me,” he said into the phone. “We’re here, and we’re set up.”

  He listened.

  “Okay,” he said. “You got this number, right . . . Say it . . . Okay . . . You need to, call me here.”

  He hung up and looked at the Indian.

  “The dance has started,” Harry said.

  His eyes were bright, Marcy thought, as if he had a fever. Still looking out the window, the Indian nodded without speaking. Maybe it’s not me, Marcy thought. Maybe they are going to do something else.

  Chapter 41

  The maroon Chevrolet van was registered to Wilson Cromartie of Tucson. Suitcase Simpson came in with the information and sat down across from Jesse. He was bulky enough so that the chair was a tight fit, and he had to adjust his gun forward a little to get comfortable.

  “Guy lives off Swan Road,” Jesse said.

  “That mean something?”

  “Good neighborhood,” Jesse said.