Robert B Parker: The Jesse Stone Novels 1-5

by Robert B. Parker

  “Wow,” Jesse said.

  “It’s not just some feature for the six o’clock news,” she said. “It’s a full-hour feature and the company plans to syndicate it.”

  “That’s great, Jenn.”

  “I’ll be here every day with the crew. I’ll have input. Jesse, this is a really big break for me. We’re owned by Allied Broadcasting, and they have stations in most of the major markets.”

  Jesse went around the desk and bent over and kissed her. She put her arms around his neck, kept her mouth pressed against his and let him pull her from the chair when he straightened up. They held the kiss a long time. When they broke, Jesse exhaled audibly.

  “When’s it being broadcast?” he said.

  “Well, in syndication it varies by market. But we’re hoping to show it next year around Race Week,” Jenn said.

  Jenn kept her arms around his neck and her body pressed against him.

  “So you have a whole year to edit and do whatever you do,” Jesse said.

  “Yes. Lay in the narration, the music track, enhance the pictures, spruce up the sound. A lot of work, and it gives you an idea of how much hope they have for this, that they’d give us so much time.”

  “A year,” Jesse said.

  He felt the press of her thighs against him, of her breasts. He felt the miasmic press of emotion that he always felt.

  “Not really a year. They need it finished in December for the syndication deal.”

  “Still a lot better than editing this afternoon for on air tonight,” Jesse said.

  They let go of each other.

  “Here,” Jenn said. “Sit in your chair. I just couldn’t wait to tell.”

  Jesse sat behind his desk. Jenn took a chair on the other side.

  “You need a place to stay up here?” Jesse said.

  “When we worked late, I was hoping to bunk in with you.”

  “That’ll work,” Jesse said.

  Here was something to worry about.

  “I know you’re not so sure you want to live together full time,” Jenn said.

  “I’m not sure what I want,” Jesse said. “Except you…exclusively.”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I won’t be here every night,” Jenn said.

  “One night at a time,” Jesse said, and smiled. “They know you used to be married to the chief of police?”

  “I think so. Truth is, I think it’s one reason I got the job. They figure it’ll give me extra access. I mean I’m a fucking weather girl, you know?”

  “People like you, Jenn.”

  “As long as you do,” Jenn said.

  “I love you.”

  “Does that mean you really, really like me?”

  “I think so,” Jesse said.

  7

  Arthur Angstrom came into Jesse’s office with a leathery gray-haired man that Jesse didn’t know.

  “This is Mr. Guilfoyle,” Arthur said. “Runs a small boat rental operation out of Ned’s Cove. Says one of his boats is missing. Don’t seem like much, except for that floater, so…” He shrugged.

  Jesse nodded.

  “Thanks, Arthur,” Jesse said. “Have a seat, Mr. Guilfoyle. Tell me about your boat.”

  “A little day sailor, twelve feet long. Marconi rigged, no jib. Centerboard.”

  Jesse nodded as if he understood, or cared.

  “And when did it go missing.”

  “Woman rented it from me last month,” Guilfoyle said. “Never returned it.”

  “How long did she rent it for?”

  “Just the day. These boats sleep no one, you know? Nobody rents them overnight.”

  “Do you have the woman’s name?” Jesse said.

  “Sure,” Guilfoyle said. “I don’t pass these things out like samples. I got a credit card and a driver’s license. But the thing is, my boat is down in Nelson’s place. In among the other boats. Nelson didn’t even know he had it, until one of the kids that works for him tried to put one of his own boats away and there was a boat in the slot. He recognized my ID number on the bow and called me. For crissake, she didn’t even clean it out.”

  “What was in it?”

  “Trash. Half a loaf of bread, some plastic cups, paper napkins all soaking wet, some moldy cheese, couple apple cores, empty wine bottle, some rotten grapes. Didn’t even put it in the damn bag.”

  “Where was the bag from?”

  “Ranch Market, in town. Like somebody bought stuff for a picnic.”

  “Just lying on the floor of the boat,” Jesse said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Who’s Nelson,” Jesse said.

  “Paradise Rentals,” Guilfoyle said. “He’s the big guy in the business, right over here off the town wharf.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “I know the place. You think she made a mistake, took it back to the wrong place?”

  “How do you do that?” Guilfoyle said.

  He wore a pink striped shirt and white duck trousers with wide red suspenders. The shirt was unbuttoned over his chest, as if he were proud of the gray hair.

  “I mean he’s here, I’m way the hell down the other end of the harbor. He’s got a hundred boats. I got fifteen. He’s short and fat.”

  “And you look like Cesar Romero,” Jesse said.

  “Yeah, right. So how does somebody make that kind of mistake.”

  “Hard to figure,” Jesse said.

  “Plus I got her damn driver’s license. I always hold it until they bring the boat back.”

  “You have that with you?” Jesse said.

  “Yeah. The credit card slip and her license.”

  Guilfoyle took a brown envelope out of his hip pocket and put it on the desk in front of Jesse.

  “Kid’s sailing the boat over to my place. I got to charge her credit card for all the time it’s been gone, you know.”

  “That’ll be up to you and the credit card company,” Jesse said. “I’ll need to hang on to the license for a few days.”

  “What if they want some kind of proof?”

  “I’ll make it available,” Jesse said. “I just want to see what happened to the woman.”

  “Something happened?”

  “Yep.”

  “I don’t want to get involved in no trouble,” Guilfoyle said.

  “Don’t blame you,” Jesse said.

  “But you think I might?”

  “Not unless you’re what happened to her,” Jesse said.

  “It’s that dead girl they found floating down by the wharf.”

  “Don’t know if it is or not,” Jesse said.

  “But if you look at the picture on her driver’s license…” Guilfoyle paused.

  Jesse was shaking his head.

  “Oh,” Guilfoyle said.

  “Thanks for coming in, Mr. Guilfoyle.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t want no trouble over this. I just want to get paid for the time my boat was missing.”

  “And I wish you well on that,” Jesse said.

  “I’m going to talk with a lawyer.”

  “That’ll be swell,” Jesse said.

  Guilfoyle looked at him. Jesse looked back.

  “Don’t lose that license, either,” Guilfoyle said.

  “Okay,” Jesse said.

  Guilfoyle lingered.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” Jesse said.

  Guilfoyle hesitated another moment, then went.

  8

  It was a Florida driver’s license. The photo was not flattering. But it showed that she was blond and thirtyish. Kind of cheap-looking, Jesse thought, and smiled. It was something his mother would have said. What the hell does it even mean? Mostly a matter of hair and makeup, probably. Her name was Florence E. Horvath. Her address was in Fort Lauderdale. Her date of birth was February 13, 1970. Jesse took the license and credit card to the copy machine, made a copy of each and took the copies to the front desk and gave them to Molly.

  “Call Fort Lauderdale,” Jesse said. “Tell them we have a body that
might be this woman, see what they got on her, or what they can get. Dental records would be good. Then call the bank that issued this credit card and see what you can get—history of purchases this month and so forth.”

  “I know you’ll explain this to me later,” Molly said.

  “Being chief means never having to explain,” Jesse said.

  “Might mean making your own coffee every morning, too,” Molly said.

  “I’ll explain this to you later,” Jesse said.

  Molly turned to the switchboard. Jesse went back to his office and looked in the phone book. There was only one Horvath listed in Paradise. He called. There was no one there named Florence, nor did they know anyone named Florence. He called the Florida Department of Highway Safety and Motor Vehicles, waded through a long menu of options, finally got someone in enforcement and arranged to have some blowups of Florence Horvath’s driver’s license photograph sent to Paradise. The he got up and went into the squad room where Peter Perkins was drinking a Diet Pepsi and reading the Globe sports section.

  “You get through with the sports page,” Jesse said, “see if you can scan this license picture into the computer and send it over to Forensics. Ask them if it could be the floater.”

  “Condition of the body,” Perkins said, “I don’t think they can tell much.”

  “Ask them if anything here rules Florence out.”

  “Okay, Jess,” Perkins said and folded the paper and put it on the conference table. “You’re the chief.”

  “Yes I am,” Jesse said.

  In the hall outside the squad room he saw Suitcase Simpson come in herding three college-aged kids, all of whom were drunk.

  “I want a lawyah,” a blond kid kept saying. “I got right to a lawyah.”

  “What’s up,” Jesse said. “A riot in day care?”

  “They were pissing in the watering trough in the town common,” Simpson said.

  “Put them in a cell,” Jesse said, “and call their parents to come get them.”

  One of the kids was wearing plaid shorts and a muscle shirt he was too skinny to sustain.

  “What charge,” he said. “Can’t lock us with no charge.”

  “Inadequate potty training,” Jesse said. “Go on down there with Officer Simpson, and when you get sick try to puke in the hopper.”

  Simpson herded them ahead of him toward the cell corridor. They were saying they weren’t drunk. There was no need to call their parents. They were being picked on for being kids. This was harassment. There was a mention of police brutality, then the door to the cell corridor closed and shut it off.

  As Jesse walked past the desk, Molly said, “Fort Lauderdale says they’ll send a patrol car over to check on the address, and they’ll see what they can find on her. Like who her dentist is, or was. Bank will send us a copy of her last statement, and a printout of the credit card charges for the period since the statement.”

  “Thank you,” Jesse said. “You ever piss in a watering trough?”

  “That what Suit busted them for?”

  “Yep.”

  “I am a mother and a wife, and an Irish Catholic,” Molly said. “I don’t piss at all.”

  9

  They were eating pepper and mushroom pizza at the little table on Jesse’s balcony, with the strong salt sea smell of the harbor drifting pleasantly around them on the soft July air. Jenn had a glass of red wine. Jesse was drinking a Coke.

  “When we’re together,” Jesse said, “what do you feel coming from me.”

  “I feel strong vibes that I should undress and lie down,” Jenn said.

  “Really?”

  Jenn was about to bite the point off a pizza slice. She stopped and looked at him with the pizza poised in front of her.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  Jenn put the pizza slice back on the plate.

  “Well, I…you know I don’t think much about stuff like that,” she said.

  “I been talking with Dix about it,” Jesse said. “I need help with it.”

  “Well, I mean, I know you love me.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I love you,” Jenn said.

  “Perfect,” Jesse said.

  “We’ve been together for a long time,” Jenn said.

  “Sort of,” Jesse said.

  “I mean, even at our worst and most separate we were connected.”

  “Yes,” Jesse said.

  “And we are more than two people who fuck.”

  “Yes,” Jesse said.

  “Which,” Jenn said, “is much better than being two people who don’t.”

  “So you don’t mind about the undressing and lying down.”

  “I like it,” Jenn said.

  “And you don’t feel objectified.”

  “Ob—what?” Jenn said. “Christ, you’re getting like whatsisname, Hamlet. You think too much. We are much more than the damn missionary position and we both know it.”

  “And there’s nothing wrong with the missionary position,” Jesse said.

  “A little unimaginative, maybe,” Jenn said.

  In the harbor there were lights showing on the bigger boats moored farther out. Cocktail on the deck, supper cooking in the galley, the running lights of a small tender boat creeping soundlessly across the black water like a firefly. Jesse drank some Coke. Caffeine. Any stimulus is better than none.

  “Dix and I talked about how sexually charged our relationship is,” Jesse said.

  “And that’s a bad thing?” Jenn said.

  She poured herself a half glass more of red wine.

  “Maybe you’re supposed to sexualize our relationship. Ever think about that, Hamlet boy? Maybe it has to do with you loving me more than the spoken word can tell.”

  “Well,” Jesse said, “there’s that.”

  10

  Healy hiked his pants up at the knee when he sat, to keep the crease. He had on a tan poplin suit and a coffee-colored snap-brim straw hat with a wide brown headband. His plain-toed cordovan shoes gleamed with polish.

  “On my way home,” Healy said. “Thought I’d stop in, see what’s happening with your floater.”

  Jesse pointed over his shoulder at the photo.

  “That her?” Healy said.

  A blowup of Florence Horvath’s driver’s license was stuck on a cork board to the left of the window behind Jesse’s desk.

  “That’s her, Captain,” Jesse said. “Florence Horvath, thirty-four years old, address in Fort Lauderdale. She had her teeth cleaned a month ago and charged it on her credit card. We called the dentist, got the dental records, forensic people compared them.”

  “You’re lucky,” Healy said. “Lot of floaters are such a mess we never do figure out who they are.”

  “Got nothing to do with luck,” Jesse said.

  “Right,” Healy said. “It was crack police work that some guy walked in and handed you her driver’s license and credit card.”

  “And,” Jesse said, “we didn’t lose them.”

  “Got me there,” Healy said. “Now that you know who she is, do you know why she’s up here?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m only a state police captain,” Healy said, “not a chief of police, like you, but since you found her in the water and since this is Race Week, could there be a connection?”

  “I got a couple of people checking the yachts in the harbor, see if any of them are out of Fort Lauderdale.”

  “Or even docked there in the last three weeks,” Healy said.

  “If she came on a yacht.”

  “If,” Healy said. “How about the airlines?”

  “No Florence Horvath on any of them.”

  “Not just from Florida,” Healy said.

  “From anywhere,” Jesse said.

  “Molly been working her ass off,” Healy said. “How about a car.”

  “Nope.”

  “Rental car?”

  “None of the big agencies, at lea
st, have her in the computer,” Jesse said. “We haven’t gotten to the Rent-a-Lemon yet.”

  “Nothing on her credit card to indicate a rental.”

  “Could have several credit cards.”

  “True.”

  “Hotels?” Healy said.

  “What is this,” Jesse said, “a quiz?”

  “Trying to learn police work,” Healy said.

  “She’s not registered in any of the area hotels.”

  “Including Boston?”

  “Including Boston.”

  “Anybody in town she might be visiting?” Healy said.

  “One family named Horvath. I called them. They never heard of her.”

  “Doesn’t mean they didn’t kill her.”

  “We don’t know if anyone killed her,” Jesse said. “Could just as well be an accident for all the forensics we got.”

  “Sure,” Healy said. “She fell overboard and drowned and no one noticed.”

  “For all we know,” Jesse said, “she fell off the Queen Elizabeth on her way to Liverpool and the currents brought her in.”

  “You think so?” Healy said.

  “No,” Jesse said.

  “Usually when someone is missing for the length of time she was in the water,” Healy said, “somebody wonders where she is.”

  “That’s true whether it’s murder or not,” Jesse said.

  “But if she were traveling, and the only person who knew her was the person she was traveling with, and that person killed her…” Healy rolled his hand.

  Jesse leaned back in his swivel chair and grinned at Healy.

  “It was a quiz, and we both aced it,” Jesse said. “Sure, I’m with you. I think she was murdered.”

  “But you have no proof,” Healy said.

  “Hell no,” Jesse said. “Not yet.”

  “She might have arrived by bus,” Healy said.

  “Yeah, and she might have hitchhiked. I got twelve people in this department including me. We’re dancing as fast as we can dance.”

  Healy smiled.

  “You got a homicide. I’m the commanding officer of the state homicide unit.”

  “So you’re offering to help?”

  “I am.”

  “Never too big to give the little guy a hand,” Jesse said.