High Profile js-6

by Robert B. Parker

  “Doesn’t hurt to think about it,” Healy said.

  “No,” Jesse said. “It doesn’t.”

  “Except then it leaves nobody who cares,” Healy said. Jesse looked at his coffee cup for a moment. Then he looked up at Healy.

  “You and me,” Jesse said. “We care.”

  “We’re supposed to,” Healy said.

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  32

  Jonah Levy held his office door for Jesse and waited until Jesse was seated before closing it and going to his own desk.

  “Dix called me,” Dr. Levy said, “on your behalf.”

  “Good,” Jesse said.

  “He says you are a very smart man.”

  “He would know,” Jesse said.

  “How can I help you?”

  “Did you treat Walton Weeks?” Jesse said.

  “Myself and my colleagues.”

  “For infertility?”

  H I G H P R O F I L E

  “Yes.”

  “Successfully,” Jesse said.

  “I gather that he had fathered a child before his death,”

  Levy said.

  “Yes. With Carey Longley.”

  “We worked with her as well,” Levy said.

  He was a small man in a gray suit and white shirt. His hair was receding. His glasses had gold rims. His tie was flamboyantly red and gold.

  “What was the problem,” Jesse said.

  Levy examined one of his thumbnails for a moment.

  “Mr. Weeks rarely ejaculated,” Levy said.

  “He was impotent?”

  “No. He had no trouble erecting. He had trouble ejaculating.”

  “So,” Jesse said. “He could do the deed, but he couldn’t, ah, finish it off.”

  Levy smiled.

  “One could put it that way,” he said.

  “Did he ever?” Jesse said.

  “Infrequently. Too infrequently, it seems, to give him much chance of engendering a child.”

  “That’s it?” Jesse said. “Just that? No biomechanical obstruction, no physical dysfunction, just didn’t finish?”

  “Just didn’t finish,” Levy said. “Had it been something physical, it might well have been easier to fix.”

  “Why?” Jesse said.

  “Why didn’t he, ah, finish?”

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  “Yes.”

  Levy leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head, and smiled at Jesse.

  “How much time do you have?” Levy said.

  “I don’t need to be board-certified,” Jesse said. “A concise summary would work.”

  Levy closed his eyes and pursed his lips and tilted his head back and thought for a moment.

  Then he said, “You are, I assume, familiar with ambivalence.”

  Jesse smiled.

  “My old friend,” he said.

  “Weeks wanted a child,” Levy said. “And desperately did not want to share it with a woman.”

  “That’s it?”

  “There’s never an it, ” Levy said. “There are always several its. There were issues of power—if he could arouse a woman sexually, he had power. If she could cause him to ejaculate, she had power. There was rage against all the women who had failed to give him full sexual release.”

  “Whom he punished by not achieving full sexual release,”

  Jesse said.

  “And punished him by denying him what he wanted.”

  Jesse whistled softly.

  “Craziness has a nice symmetry, doesn’t it,” Jesse said.

  “Often,” Levy said.

  “Can we say concisely why he was like this?”

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  H I G H P R O F I L E

  “Not really,” Levy said. “No surprise—it had to do with his mother and his childhood encounters with women. Certainly his mother sexualized their relationship.”

  “She molest him?”

  “In the conventional way?” Levy said. “Probably not. But because of the inappropriate nature of their relationship, sex became the ultimate expression of love and, because it was his mother, horribly frightening. And it remained so, lodged there in his unconscious, all his life.”

  “So what happened?” Jesse said.

  “To bring him here?”

  “Yeah. He’s fifty, he’s had three wives, a million women, no kids. What made him come to you all of a sudden?”

  Levy looked at his thumbnail again. He didn’t answer. Jesse waited. Finally Levy looked up at Jesse.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wow,” Jesse said.

  Levy smiled.

  “We don’t like to say that much.”

  “I say it all the time,” Jesse said.

  “I’m saying it more often,” Levy said, “than I used to. Clearly, it had to do with the woman.”

  “Carey Longley,” Jesse said.

  “Yes.”

  “He wanted to have a baby with her.”

  “Yes,” Levy said. “They talked of buying a home together.”

  “Where?” Jesse said.

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  “In Paradise,” Levy said. “Unless they were being metaphorical.”

  “What about his current wife?”

  “It is my impression he had given her no thought. He was entirely consumed with this relationship.”

  “Ain’t love grand,” Jesse said.

  Levy smiled. The two men sat quietly for a moment.

  “What do you think about love, Doctor?” Jesse said.

  “I remain agnostic about love,” Levy said. “But there is clearly a connection between . . . there clearly was a connection between them that seemed to have been lacking in other instances.”

  “What made her special?”

  “I don’t know,” Levy said.

  “Did he have an explanation?”

  “He simply said that he loved her, and had never loved anyone else.”

  “You talk with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “She deserve it?” Jesse said.

  “I don’t know that deserve is an issue in these kinds of situations,” Levy said. “She seemed to reciprocate.”

  “So it wasn’t because she was, for lack of a better word, better than all the others?”

  Levy looked at Jesse for a moment.

  “No, often in these matters, flaws are the appeal.”

  “How about in this case?”

  “I don’t know,” Levy said.

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  “But if you weren’t agnostic about it, you could probably say that we love who we love whether we should or not, even though there are more suitable people to love.”

  “Are we still talking about Mr. Weeks?” Levy said. Jesse was silent for a moment. He could feel his heartbeat; he was aware of his own breathing. Then he smiled at Levy.

  “No,” Jesse said. “We’re not.”

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  33

  It was a little after noon. Jesse and Suit were having sandwiches and coffee at Daisy’s Restaurant. Daisy herself was being interviewed by a woman in front of a television camera.

  “Still news?” Jesse said to the waitress.

  “Now it’s follow-up,” the waitress said. “You know, how has the discovery of a body in your Dumpster affected your business and your life.”

  “I thought Daisy hated the press,” Suit said.

  “I guess she don’t,” the waitress said. “We got rhubarb pie for dessert. You want me to save you some.”

  “Please,” Jesse said.

  H I G H P R O F I L E

  “The poor bastard,” Suit said.

  “Weeks?”

  “Yeah, he finally finds the girl of his dreams and she’s finally pregnant and somebody comes along and dumps them both.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “Might be a connection,” Jesse said.

  “Maybe the wife?” Suit said. “Jealo
us?”

  “Maybe,” Jesse said.

  They ate for a moment in silence, watching Daisy talk to the reporter on camera.

  “You know the one thing is bothering me?” Jesse said.

  “Just one?” Suit said.

  “One of many,” Jesse said. “They, together, had an appointment with Dr. Levy two weeks before they were killed. And they didn’t show up.”

  “No cancellation?”

  “No. Just never appeared. Levy’s office called them and no one answered.”

  “Where’d they call?” Suit said.

  “Hotel,” Jesse said.

  “Here? In Boston?”

  “Yeah, the Langham.”

  “Except for the time,” Suit said, “you’d think that was because they were dead.”

  “You would,” Jesse said.

  “Except the ME says it was only a few days before we found them,” Suit said.

  “Depending on the body’s environment,” Jesse said. 1 5 5

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  “You mean somebody maybe tried to fool us?”

  “I don’t mean anything, Suit. I’m grabbing at every straw that floats past. I want to know how long they were at the Langham. I want to know when they were last seen.”

  “Didn’t Lutz say he’d seen them last walking up Franklin Street,” Suit said.

  “He said the doorman had seen them walking up Franklin Street,” Jesse said. “And, you know, he never exactly said when that was.”

  “I could ask him,” Suit said.

  “Let’s just keep track of him for now,” Jesse said, “while I give it all some thought.”

  “We could have some pie,” Suit said, “while you were doing that.”

  “I’ll need the energy,” Jesse said.

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  34

  Jesse sat on the edge of Marcy Campbell’s desk while she ran through her files.

  “It is a booming real-estate market,” Marcy said. “I have sold more houses already this year than I sold all of last.”

  She picked up a sheet of paper, glanced at it, put it back in the folder.

  “I keep track of everything bought and sold in the last twelve months,” she said.

  “Sold by you?” Jesse said.

  “Sold by anyone,” Marcy said. “I like to keep track.”

  “How’s your love life?” Jesse said.

  R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

  “Busy, but we could always share a moment,” Marcy said.

  “Where are you with Jenn?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re still serious about her,” Marcy said.

  “I am, and another woman as well.”

  “And you’re serious about her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which are you more serious about?” Marcy said.

  “I don’t know.”

  She put the folder away and took out another.

  “Drinking?” Marcy said.

  “Not bad, I’m drinking less than I’d like to.”

  “Don’t we all,” Marcy said. “Want me to lock the office and pull down the shade?”

  Jesse smiled at her.

  “Rain check?” he said.

  “Of course,” Marcy said. “What are friends for?”

  “I think I know,” Jesse said.

  Marcy grinned.

  “Seriousness not required,” she said and shook her head.

  “No Walton Weeks.”

  “How about Carey Longley?”

  While Marcy looked, Jesse walked to the front window of the small office and looked out at the narrow street that led to the harbor. The houses were close together. There were no yards. The front doors were separated from the street only by a narrow sidewalk. The street was too narrow to permit 1 5 8

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  parking, and as Jesse stood there, no cars passed. Two hundred years ago it must have looked much the same.

  “No Carey Longley,” Marcy said. “I do have a Carey Young.”

  “Bingo,” Jesse said without turning around. “Maiden name.”

  “They didn’t want anyone to know,” Marcy said.

  “Trying to be private,” Jesse said.

  “And dying very publicly,” Marcy said.

  “Where’s the property?”

  “Stiles Island,” Marcy said. “Outer side. Private beach, six rooms. Four-point-two million.”

  “For six rooms?”

  “That’s what it says.”

  “You sell it?” Jesse said.

  “No. Ed Reamer, at Keyes Realty.”

  “Have an address for the house?” Jesse said.

  “On the sheet,” Marcy said.

  She stood and walked to the window and stood beside Jesse and handed him the sheet. Then she leaned her head against his shoulder.

  “Life’s pretty hard,” she said. “Isn’t it.”

  “It is,” Jesse said.

  “Want a hug?” Marcy said.

  “I do,” he said.

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  It was a one-story stone house with a cedar-shingled roof. The living room occupied the entire front, all glass facing the ocean. There was a big fireplace on the right-hand end wall with a raised hearth. The kitchen was green granite and stainless steel. There were two bedrooms, each with a full bath, and a room with a smaller fireplace, which was probably going to be a den. The house was empty. The flagstone floors gleamed with a new finish. The walls were newly painted. There was no furniture, no rugs, no drapes, no china, no crystal, no toothpaste, no towels, nothing to suggest human life. Like seeing a person naked, Jesse thought.

  H I G H P R O F I L E

  He stood in the silent living room and stared out past the patio, and across the small silver beach, at the gray Atlantic Ocean. Here along the North Shore, the ocean was cold, Jesse knew, even in the summer. It took fortitude to swim in it. Jesse walked the length of the room. There was no place in the room where you couldn’t see the ocean.

  They would have put the dining area here, Jesse thought. Near the kitchen. And in the winter, they would have had a big fire in the fireplace and had drinks from the built-in wet bar, and watched the spray splatter against the thermopane during a storm. This would have been Walton’s office. With the nice bay window looking at the ocean. This would have been the master bedroom, nice skylight. This one would have been the kid’s room. Jesse stood in the room feeling, suddenly, the thwarted reality of the tenweek fetus. He walked into the kitchen. A big range hood over a built-in barbecue. A pantry off the rear wall, with a walk-in re- frigerator. The dream house. Every convenience. The dream must have seemed so close. Reach out and take hold of it. All of it. Wife and child. At long last, love. A walk-in refrigerator!

  Jesse went in. The room was maybe eight by eight, with shelves along the three walls. There was nothing stored there. The shelves were empty. The compressor was shut off. The windowless room was warm. There was a thermostat on the wall. It was set to thirty-five. Jesse turned the switch on. Somewhere he could hear the compressor begin to run quietly. Soon he began to feel cold air. He walked around the empty space and saw nothing. He went back to the thermostat and shut it off and left the refrigeration room. 1 6 1

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  He stood for a time in the living room, listening to nothing, feeling the emptiness. Then he went outside and walked down to the beach and looked at the water. It was restless and active on the outer side of the island. There were whitecaps. The tide was high and there wasn’t much beach above the reach of the waves. The way the coastline curved, there were no other houses in sight, and he couldn’t see the road from where he stood.

  He took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed.

  “Molly,” he said. “I’m at Five Stiles Island Road. Send Peter Perkins out here with all his stuff. Tell him he’s going to be looking for blood.”

  “Whose blood?” Molly said.

  “I don’t know yet.”r />
  “Has it to do with Walton Weeks?” Molly said.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “But it might?” Molly said.

  “Or it might not,” Jesse send. “Could you see if you can find Peter Perkins.”

  “Yessir,” Molly said.

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  Sunny had supper with Jenn at the Union Street Bar and Grill, in the South End, across from the cathedral. Several people recognized Jenn and pointed her out to companions. When they came out, Sunny saw the stalker lingering across the street, near the sheltered bus stop. Sunny paid him no attention. She patted her left thigh as if in time to music, and gave the valet her ticket. As she got into the car she glanced in her side-view mirror and saw Spike get out of his car, two blocks back on Washington Street. She smiled and when the valet closed the door for Jenn, she put the car in gear and drove away without looking back.

  R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

  “I need to swing by my place,” Sunny said, “before I drop you off.”

  Jenn nodded. She sat with her head back against the car seat and her eyes closed.

  “What’s your ex-husband like?” Jenn said.

  Sunny thought about it.

  “Richie’s father and uncle run a mob,” she said.

  “They’re gangsters?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about him?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You were married to him?” Jenn said. “You maybe still love him? And you’re not sure?”

  “I don’t think Richie is even sure.”

  “Is he a criminal?” Jenn said.

  “No,” Sunny said. “I don’t believe that he is. But he is very loyal to his father and his uncle.”

  “Even if it means being, ah, you know, illegal?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you feel about that?” Jenn said.

  “It scares me,” Sunny said.

  She turned right off the northbound surface road and onto the Summer Street Bridge. Fort Point Channel was thick and dark beneath them.

  “But,” Sunny said, “I guess I understand. I’m quite close to my father.”

  “I envy you that,” Jenn said.

  “You don’t have family, or you’re not close?”

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