Robert B. Parker's The Devil Wins

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “How could he know the building was gonna go? Shit happens, man.”

  “But why always to us? I didn’t even want to go to Stiles that night.”

  “Yeah, you said that, like, a million times, but you’re full of it. You wanted a piece of her like we all did. It was her friend that screwed everything up. We shouldn’ta let her come.”

  “Now who’s full of it? She wouldn’ta gone with us if—”

  He stopped mid-sentence when the waitress stopped by the table to ask if they wanted another round.

  “Sure,” they both said, just to get rid of her.

  “Look, what’s done is done. We messed up. This will blow over, too.”

  “It’s never done. And we just killed—”

  “Keep it down. Keep it down, man. Take it easy.”

  Their second round came, though neither of them had half finished their first beers. The fidgety man stood up, again patting his jacket for cigarettes. When he felt them, he let out a loud sigh. He pulled a bent cigarette out of the semi-crushed pack and rolled it around in his fingers.

  “I got to have a smoke,” he said.

  “Go ahead, man. Do it already.”

  When he was certain his friend was out of the Scupper, he went to the men’s room. He slid the little metal bar into the crude hole in the doorjamb and dug his cell out of his pocket.

  “Yeah, it’s me. I think we got a problem.”

  When the conversation was over, he went back out to the table and reread the limerick’s first two lines, but this time he didn’t laugh.

  15

  The following morning Jesse was sitting in his office, waiting for Healy to show so they could finally get the real police work under way, but they had to get the press conference behind them. Jesse had wanted to notify both sets of parents before going public with the autopsy results, but Ginny Connolly’s mother wouldn’t be getting into Logan until that afternoon. Molly was going to meet her flight and then drive her back to Paradise. Maxie Connolly had moved out of state six months after her daughter’s disappearance. Molly told Jesse that Ginny’s father had left before his daughter could walk.

  “I don’t even remember Ginny’s dad,” Molly said, “and there were no pictures of him in their house.”

  Jesse had also hoped to get an ID on John Doe before he spoke to the media, but that wasn’t going to happen. It seemed John Doe hadn’t been a popular guy. His fingerprints hadn’t gotten any hits from the local, state, or federal databases and his DNA sample was at the back of a long line at the state crime lab. The only tangible thing they had to work with was the tattoo.

  As he passed the time, Jesse pounded a baseball into the pocket of his old Rawlings glove. Some men paced. Some prayed the rosary. Jesse pounded the ball. Variations on a theme. He had once been an inevitable phone call away from Dodger Stadium. Funny how inevitability is a bit more elusive than the word implies. Jesse’s dream of Dodger blue came crashing down during a meaningless exhibition game in Pueblo, Colorado. In the course of a few seconds, his future took a permanent detour away from Dodger Stadium. The team doctor said he’d been unlucky. That if only Jesse had landed on any other part of his shoulder, they probably could have fixed him up like new. If only, Jesse thought. Two of the most dangerous words in the English language. Without that powerful arm, Jesse’s career was shot. All the baseball savvy in the world won’t help you throw a runner out at first from deep in the hole. And deep in a hole was where Jesse Stone had found himself.

  Jesse was still pounding the ball when Bill Marchand came into the office. Square-jawed, blue-eyed, with black and silver hair that seemed to fall into place of its own accord. About Jesse’s height, but more slender, he was one of those men whose clothes hung on him just so. It was no wonder to Jesse that Marchand had succeeded in business and politics. He had the rare combination of good looks and unforced charm that appealed to men and women alike. When Jesse saw that Marchand was close to his desk, he wrapped the fingers of his glove around the ball and put the glove back in its customary spot on his desk.

  “Bill.”

  “Jesse.”

  “You here as friend or foe?” Jesse asked.

  “Both, I suppose.”

  “Those shutters hold during the storm?”

  Marchand smiled. “They did. Thanks for the help.”

  “What can I do for you, Bill?”

  For one of the few times since they’d known each other, Marchand looked uneasy. He’d been sent to talk sense to Jesse about the murders. If it was any of the other selectmen or some other town functionary, Jesse might’ve been tempted to let him twist in the wind for a while. But Marchand usually had his back and Jesse wasn’t a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately? kind of guy. He valued loyalty and friendship even if he wasn’t very good friend material himself.

  “Boys in town hall nervous?” Jesse said.

  Marchand exhaled, laughed. “If you’ve forgotten, Jesse, Mayor Walker is a woman.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. Bill, it will be easier if you just say what you’ve come to say.”

  “She’s worried. We’re all worried.”

  “With what’s going on, it’d be hard not to be worried.”

  “Look, Jesse, it’s not that. We’ve had a fair share of crime around here since you came on board. Worse than in some nearby towns, much better than in some others. And you’ve gotten to the bottom of all of it. But this . . . this strikes at the core of things.”

  “Tough to sell Paradise as the Best Little Seaside Town in Massachusetts when you’ve got the skeletons of two murdered girls and an unidentified body with half its head blown off all over the national media.”

  Marchand nodded. While he didn’t always love Jesse’s lack of diplomacy, he appreciated Jesse’s ability to cut through the bull and get to the point.

  “Town hall wants it to all go away quick,” Jesse said.

  The selectman smiled. “That’s about right.”

  “Quick isn’t my job. Doing right is.”

  “How did I know you were going to say that?”

  Jesse shook his head, a sly smile on his face. “Because it’s the same answer I give everyone who’s ever walked through my office door and tried to tell me how to do my job, from Hasty Hathaway on down.”

  Marchand raised his palms up in front of him. “Hold on a second, Jesse. I’m a long ways away from that corrupt little prick, Hasty Hathaway. You know I’ve always erred on your side of things when matters come before us.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So why give me the treatment? We’re friends. I’m only the messenger.”

  Jesse stood up from his desk chair, turned his back on Marchand, and stared out his window at the water and Stiles Island.

  “It’s because we’re friends that I’m telling you this, Bill. This isn’t a parking ticket I can make go away with a wave of my hand. I’ve got three murders to deal with, two of which are twenty-five years old. Everyone in this town over the age of forty is a suspect for the old murders, and probably the new one, too.”

  “Including me?”

  “Including you,” Jesse said. “So tell Her Honor and her minions that I have a job to do and I’ll do it my way.”

  “She can always fire you.”

  “That’s her prerogative, but you’ll make sure she doesn’t do that.”

  “I will?” Marchand asked. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you like winning softball championships and you’ve got no shot without me.”

  They both laughed at that.

  “And,” Jesse said, “you know it would look even worse if she tried to get rid of me in the middle of this mess.”

  “Okay, Jesse, I’ll talk them off the ledge, but I can’t promise they won’t walk back onto it.”

  “Understood.”

  “Is there anything els
e I can do to help?”

  Jesse nodded.

  “What’s that?” Marchand asked.

  “New softball uniforms. The old ones are beat-up.”

  “Anything else?”

  “An obvious suspect might be nice.”

  Marchand laughed. “I’ll see what I can do about the uniforms.”

  They shook hands and Marchand left. Jesse went back to staring out the window and waiting for Healy to show.

  16

  The station was ill-equipped to handle the glut of reporters crowded into the small conference room. That suited Jesse fine. When he noticed that most of the reporters weren’t wearing their coats, Jesse instructed Suit to shut off the heat in the building, then delayed the beginning of the press conference for twenty minutes. He’d already made sure there were no seats in the room. The more uncomfortable the media were, the sooner they’d stop asking questions and the sooner he could get on with his job. Jesse began with a brief statement about how all the resources of his department and those of the state police would be brought to bear on the cases. His main focus was on the body in the blue tarp. He gave as many specifics as possible on his John Doe.

  “Finally,” Jesse said, holding up an enlarged print, “we have this. The tattoo is four inches long by three inches wide and is located under the victim’s left arm.” Jesse put the print down and raised his left arm. “It runs from here to here. Officer Simpson will distribute copies of this image as you leave the premises and it will also be available on ParadisePD.gov, as will many of the facts we discuss here today. The Paradise Police Department would appreciate your help in identifying the deceased.”

  Jesse was purposefully less forthcoming about the girls. He did confirm that the bodies found at the abandoned factory building were those of Mary Kate O’Hara and Virginia Connolly. He mentioned that the ME believed Mary Kate’s death was caused by numerous stab wounds, any of which might have been fatal. That there were notches and scrapes on several of her ribs, scapula, and clavicle that were consistent with wounds from the same knife. He didn’t elaborate beyond that. He noticed that even before he opened the floor to questions some of the reporters were rubbing their hands together and blowing on them for warmth. He almost smiled.

  A Boston TV reporter Jesse recognized because he had worked with Jenn said, “You didn’t give the cause of death for the Connolly girl.”

  “You’re correct.”

  “Will you give it to us now?”

  “No.”

  After that, the questions came rapid-fire.

  “Have you officially notified both sets of parents?”

  “I spoke with Mrs. O’Hara yesterday afternoon and Mrs. Connolly will be arriving in town later today.”

  “Does the ME have any idea how long the blade on the knife was that killed the O’Hara girl?”

  “She does. Next.”

  “Does she have an estimate as to how long the girls have been buried there?”

  “We believe the girls have been where they were discovered since shortly after they disappeared.”

  “You believe that based on what?”

  “Science.”

  Jesse was at his irksome best.

  “Is it your theory that the John Doe is somehow connected to the murder of the girls?”

  Jesse shrugged. “I’m not in the theory business. I’m in the evidence business.”

  “Do you have any suspects?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “That would be telling. Next.”

  The sparring went on for about fifteen minutes before Jesse turned the mics over to Healy, who was equally vague, just less annoyingly so. After ten minutes of Healy giving the press the runaround, they surrendered to the cold and left.

  Jesse and Healy shook hands. Healy said he had to get back to the office, but that he could return to town tomorrow if Jesse needed him.

  “I’ll let you know,” Jesse said. “Today I’ve got to talk to Ginny Connolly’s mother. Molly’s picking her up at Logan. Then it’s due diligence time. Going back and re-interviewing everyone mentioned in the old reports.”

  At the mention of Ginny Connolly’s mom, Healy rolled his eyes.

  Jesse asked. “What’s that about?”

  “When you meet Maxie Connolly, you’ll see.”

  17

  The minute Maxie Connolly came through his office door, Jesse understood why Healy had rolled his eyes at the mention of her name. She didn’t just come through the door. She blew in like a force of nature. Watching her walk toward him, Jesse half expected to hear the blare of trumpets. It didn’t take a trained detective to get that Maxie was all about herself. But persistent narcissism catches up to the best of them. It had definitely caught up to Maxie Connolly and had started taking its toll. Time, too. The skin of her face was too tanned and taut. Her hair, too blond and brassy. Her sunglasses were too big, her full-length mink too outrageous, and her jewelry too tasteless. All the knobs on her were turned up to ten. Jesse expected to see Molly trailing behind, but Molly was nowhere to be seen.

  “You’re cute,” Maxie Connolly said in her two-pack-a-day voice. She threw herself in the chair facing Jesse’s desk.

  “Thank you. Where’s Officer Crane?”

  She tilted her head in confusion. “Officer Crane? Who’s Officer—Oh, Molly. Jeez, little Molly Burke turned out to be some piece of ass, huh? Who woulda figured that? I mean, she was a cute girl, but I never figured she’d fill out like that. I bet you have trouble keeping your hands off that ass of hers.”

  Jesse stood up and came around the desk. He held out his right hand.

  “I’m Chief Stone, but I’d like it if you’d call me Jesse.”

  She took his hand.

  “I’d like it if you would call me yours.”

  He laughed, but not at her. He’d been around grief and its many forms long enough to give Maxie Connolly a break.

  “I’m too old for you,” he said. “I’d never be able to keep up.”

  She bowed her head and smiled.

  “Where is Molly?”

  “She’s dropping Al at the hotel.”

  “Al?”

  “Husband number three. Traveling’s rough on him. Molly said she’d be here as soon as she got him settled in. Hey, Jesse, you got anything to drink in here?”

  “I can get Officer Simpson to get you a glass of water.”

  “That the big fella out by the desk?”

  “That’s him,” Jesse said.

  “Hunky as he is, I was hoping for something a little stronger than water.”

  Jesse reached into his bottom drawer and pulled out the bottle of Jameson that someone had given him as a gift last Christmas. He didn’t prefer it. Bourbon was usually his backup after Johnnie Walker, but Healy liked it and Healy was the one he most often shared a drink with in the office. He took out a red plastic cup and poured a finger or two for Maxie Connolly. After pouring, he put the bottle away.

  She raised the glass to him. “Slainte.” Maxie took it in a single gulp. “Thank you, Jesse.”

  He nodded.

  They sat there like that for a few seconds, in silence. Cracks were starting to show in her armor. They both knew what was coming next.

  “Maxie—may I call you Maxie?”

  Now it was her turn to nod.

  “I’m going to ask Officer Simpson to come and sit with us.”

  “Does he have to be in here?” she asked, her raspy voice quivering, her hands shaking.

  “I think he does, Maxie. Usually I’d have Molly in here with us. It’s that I want someone to take notes when we’re talking. I need to pay careful attention to you, and if Officer Simpson is in here with us, I can do that more effectively.”

  That wasn’t it at all. Jesse wasn’t comfortable being alone in his office with w
omen he wasn’t acquainted with: not suspects, not women he was interviewing. These days it was just too easy for people to make accusations that were impossible to contain or disprove. He had already taken a big risk by giving Maxie a drink and he had no intention of taking any risks beyond that one.

  “Can’t we wait till Molly gets back?”

  “Let me check something.”

  Jesse went to his door, poked his head through, and asked Suit to see where Molly was at. Just as Suit pressed the button on the mic, Molly walked into the station.

  18

  Molly Crane’s contempt for Maxie Connolly grew exponentially as her dead friend’s mother spoke to Jesse about her daughter. Jesse caught on to Molly’s ire quickly enough—not that she hid it—but he needed Molly there to listen. She’d grown up on the same street with Ginny and Maxie. She’d been witness to some of the events leading up to the girls’ disappearance. Maxie broke down briefly when Jesse assured her there was no mistake about her daughter’s remains. She asked for another drink and Jesse gave it to her. The second drink seemed to loosen her up even more.

  “She was a lot like her father, Ginny was, all quiet and to herself,” Maxie said. “I don’t know what I saw in that father of hers to begin with. Sure, Steven was a handsome man, but I swear, the minute after he said ‘I do,’ it was, like, ‘Not anymore.’ Nuh-uh. I couldn’t get him to do anything. Not go to the movies. Not screw. I’m not even sure how Ginny was even conceived. Musta been a blue moon or something. And believe me, Jesse,” she said, putting her hand on his thigh as he leaned against the front of his desk, “I’ve never had trouble getting men interested in me.”

  Jesse waited a beat and then went to sit behind his desk.

  “All he wanted to do was to go to work, come home, eat dinner, and sit in front of the TV and watch his beloved Sox. I think the only way I could have gotten him interested in doing me was to dress up like Oil Can Boyd. Instead I went and wasted my money on garters and bustiers.”