Robert B. Parker's The Devil Wins

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  Cavanaugh perked up when Jesse strode into his basement office. He stood up and gave Jesse a big handshake. Though Cavanaugh had put on some weight since his playing days, his belly creeping over his beltline, he was strong. Jesse flexed his hand to get feeling back into it once Connor had let it go.

  “How you doing, Jesse? All these bodies can’t be good for anyone but us. We got a run on rooms. A lot of the news crews are staying here.”

  “I’m doing okay, but I need to get these cases solved.”

  “I hear you,” Cavanaugh said. “You remember how to use the system?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll go do my rounds, then. I got it all queued up for you.”

  “How about incoming and outgoing calls?” Jesse asked.

  “Right. I almost forgot about that.” Cavanaugh took a slip of message paper out of his back pocket. “There was one incoming call at ten-forty-seven and an outgoing call at eleven-twenty. Anything else?”

  “Do you have the numbers?”

  Cavanaugh hesitated. “Technically, we’re not supposed to keep track of this sort of thing. Our guests have a right to their privacy.”

  “Tell it to the NSA. Do you have the numbers? It will be between the two of us.”

  Cavanaugh handed the slip of paper to Jesse. “That’s the incoming number there. I don’t have the outgoing. Guests can dial out directly. It only comes up on our records as local, long-distance, or overseas.”

  “That’s fine,” Jesse said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  Jesse waited for Cavanaugh to leave. He looked at the number of the incoming call. He didn’t recognize it, though he didn’t have any expectation that he would. He was confident he already knew the outgoing number. That was Maxie calling Paradise Taxi for her cab. He had gotten the time of that incoming call when he’d been to the cab company’s offices earlier that morning. The times matched up. He called Suit, gave him the incoming number, and told him to trace it. He also told Suit to make an appointment for him with Lance Szarbo, the only viable witness to the girls’ disappearance.

  Jesse got to work on the hotel’s video surveillance footage. He knew that there would be coverage in the hallway outside Maxie and Al Franzen’s room, in the elevator, all entrance and exit points, the lobby, and all other public areas of the hotel. He began with hallway footage, speeding through the video until he saw Suit accompanying Maxie back to her room. From that point on, he watched the footage at a slower rate, though he didn’t figure he would see Maxie appear again until after her phone call to Paradise Taxi. He was wrong.

  Maxie came out of her room at nine-twenty-three p.m. She wasn’t wearing her full-length mink, or any other coat, for that matter. And without the coat on it was easier to see what men had seen and still saw in her. At sixty-plus years of age, she had the body of a forty-year-old. And she carried herself with a kind of ferocious sexuality that some men found irresistible. Jesse marveled at it because there was no one there to watch her. She might have had some work done, but so what? She was wearing a satiny silver blouse, a not-too-short black skirt, and black stilettos. She went directly to the elevator. Exiting the elevator, she went to the Whaler Lounge. She ordered a drink at the bar. It wasn’t two minutes before several men approached her. Though it was difficult to see her facial expressions, it wasn’t difficult to see Maxie Connolly was in her comfort zone.

  It went on like that for about a half hour: men coming, toasting, flirting, and going. Then at ten-oh-nine another man approached her, but unlike the other men, Jesse recognized this one. It was Alexio Dragoa, the fisherman. Although Jesse had spotted the fisherman at the bar, he hadn’t had any reason to connect him to Maxie Connolly. He wasn’t sure he had one now. That was until he enlarged the images and saw that Maxie was less than pleased to see Dragoa. She tried standing, moving away, but he grabbed her by her arm, pushing her back down onto the bar stool. That wouldn’t have been difficult for Alexio. He was a powerfully built man with incredibly strong forearms, wrists, and hands. Still, Alexio didn’t appear to be assaultive. It was almost as if he was pleading with Maxie, gesturing with his arms and hands. After a few minutes of that, Alexio backed off. Maxie stood and walked by Dragoa. She headed for the elevator. Alexio remained in the bar, had three drinks in short order, then left. Maxie went straight back to her room and didn’t reappear until eleven-twenty-two, this time in her fur coat. She seemed in a hurry. But for what? Jesse wondered. For what?

  30

  Suit had gotten back to Jesse even before he had finished going through the surveillance footage. The incoming call to Maxie’s room had come from one of the four remaining pay phones in Paradise. At that time of night, there wouldn’t have been any open businesses, nor much street traffic in the vicinity of the phone. The incoming call was a dead end. The other thing Suit had to say was even less encouraging. Word about Maxie Connolly’s “suicide” was out and the phones were ringing off the hook.

  “What should I tell them, Jesse?”

  “Confirm the death. Tell them that pending the ME’s report we have no comment and that we don’t speculate. As soon as we have the ME’s findings, we will release a statement to the press.”

  “Will do, Jesse.”

  After the call, Jesse rode the elevator up to Al Franzen’s room. During his conversation with Suit, it had occurred to him that Maxie Connolly must’ve had a cell phone. Yet the call had come to her room and she had used the room phone to call Paradise Taxi. Was it significant? He didn’t know. Might be, might not. He was also curious about her handbag. Like her coat, Maxie’s bag had been expensive but too much. He noticed it the second she blew into his office. It was by some Italian designer. Jesse knew that because it was fairly covered in the designer’s name. The thing was huge and had all sorts of gold studs and diamond accents on it. But it hadn’t been found on the beach below the Bluffs or at the place where Maxie had gone over. His best guess was that when he found the cell phone, he’d also find the bag. And it was a good bet he’d find them both in the hotel room.

  He knocked at Al Franzen’s door. When there was no response, Jesse worried that things were going to go from terrible to worse. That he was going to have to call Connor Cavanaugh upstairs and use his passkey to get in. That they would find Al Franzen dead, a victim of his own frail health or with the aid of an outside party. But Jesse relaxed when he heard stirring from inside the room.

  “Coming,” he said. “Coming.”

  Franzen’s already sad face fell to the floor at the sight of Jesse Stone. He couldn’t imagine that the police chief at his door meant anything good. He gestured for Jesse to come in.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Franzen.”

  The old man seemed not to hear. “I’ve made arrangements for Maxie and Ginny’s burial for when they release Maxie’s body. I think they should both stay here, together.”

  Jesse said, “I can make sure the ME holds on to Ginny’s remains until she releases Maxie to you. Please let me know when the service happens. I’d like to be there.”

  Franzen nodded his appreciation.

  “You know, Chief, people thought Maxie didn’t care about Ginny, but she did. She told me what people here thought of her. Sometimes I would catch her holding her girl’s picture and crying. Old men know grief. I have buried a wife and a daughter myself. Now two wives.”

  “Sorry.”

  “We all grieve in different ways. Maxie, I think, has been grieving her whole life, even before Ginny. I don’t claim to understand it. I don’t know what the pain was in her life before what happened to Ginny. Maxie would never talk about it. But there was a hurt there. Deep-as-a-mountain-is-high kind of hurt. And Maxie would go from man to man to ease the pain. I knew she did, maybe even the day after we were married, but it wasn’t about cheating. It was about escaping.”

  “You’re a wise man, Mr. Franzen.”

  “I’m an o
ld man. Sometimes those are the same things. What can I do for you?”

  “We didn’t find Maxie’s handbag with her,” Jesse said. “Is it here, do you know?”

  “That silly thing,” Franzen said, shaking his head. A sad smile on his face. “So big and showy. If Maxie could have gotten neon on it, she would have. That was my Maxie. But no, Chief, it’s not here. I looked.”

  “Did she have a cell phone?”

  “Sure. She kept it in that bag of hers. Why, you didn’t find that, either?”

  “You should have been a cop.”

  Franzen shook his head. “No money in it.”

  Jesse laughed.

  “Can you give me her cell number?”

  Al Franzen recited the number, which Jesse entered directly into his cell.

  “Did Maxie ever talk about the people she knew in town? Did she mention old friends?”

  “You mean old boyfriends?” Franzen asked.

  “I mean anyone.”

  “Not really. She used to talk only about how people here didn’t like her very much, but she never talked about anyone in particular, though . . .”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just my old mind playing tricks on me or my mistaking it for her missing Ginny,” Franzen said.

  “It might help.”

  “I got the sense that there was always somebody here for her. You know, like the one true love that got away.”

  “But she never said anything or mentioned a name?” Jesse asked. He had thought about mentioning Dragoa’s name, but decided against it. Once a name got out there, he wouldn’t be able to take it back. And if there was a name even an old man might remember, Dragoa was one that would stick.

  Franzen didn’t hesitate. “No, I’m sorry. Like I said, it was just a sense that I got. When Paradise would come up occasionally, Maxie would get a faraway look in her eyes. I’m not so old or feeble that I don’t remember what that kind of look means.”

  Jesse shook Al Franzen’s hand and left. Again, with more questions than answers.

  31

  None of the yachting club membership were pleased about Alexio Dragoa docking the Dragoa Rainha, the Dragon Queen, at the marina. They weren’t pleased about any of the few remaining commercial fishing vessels left in Paradise operating out of there, but they were most displeased with Alexio. The other fishermen had, at least, made an attempt to keep their boats freshly painted and presentable for the tourists and visitors to town. They made sure to sell some of their catch at dockside during peak tourist season to lend an air of authenticity to Paradise’s alleged seagoing past. Those had been the stipulations Alexio’s dad and the other fishermen had agreed to in order to be grandfathered in when ownership of the marina changed hands. But Alexio, like his father before him, paid them little mind.

  Neither of the Dragoas, father nor son, much cared for appearances. They were real men of the sea, workingmen, tourism be damned. With each passing year, there were fewer working boats. Most of the fishermen had given up years ago, either getting out of the business altogether or refitting their vessels to service tourists for game-fishing excursions or for corporate outings.

  Jesse stood dockside, watching as the Dragoa Rainha was skillfully maneuvered into her berth. Dragoa’s boat was kept far away from where the fancier yachts were docked during the season. Most of the leisure craft were either already out of the water for the winter or had been sailed to warmer climes by their owners. Even the few other holdout working boats had been out of the water for weeks. Only the Dragoa Rainha remained. Jesse was no sailor, so he just stood aside when Alexio’s crewman threw ropes onto the dock. The crewman then jumped onto the dock and used the ropes to secure the boat. Jesse nodded at the crewman, who returned the nod before getting back on board.

  Ten minutes later, Dragoa and the crewman unloaded three red-and-white coolers and a hand truck onto the dock. The crewman stacked the chests onto the hand truck.

  “Remember, the bottom two are for the Lobster Claw. The top one is for the Gull,” Dragoa said.

  “Aye, Skip.”

  “And collect the money. Cash. I don’t want to hear no bull from them about—”

  “No checks. I got it, Skip.”

  Jesse waited for the click-clacking of the hand truck’s wheels along the boards of the dock to quiet before talking to Dragoa.

  “Skeleton crew,” Jesse said.

  “No need for more men this time of year.”

  Dragoa was a good-looking man. Some men are beaten down by rugged, outdoor work. Some are honed by it, their features chiseled and set by the cold, the wind, and the water. That was Alexio Dragoa. Beneath a sea-tousled mop of ink-black hair, he had fierce brown eyes, a square, cleft chin, and a nose that had seen more than one bar fight. But it was the kind of nose that added character to his looks. Good thing he has looks, Jesse thought, because he has no manners. It was also good because Alexio smelled perpetually of fish, cigarette smoke, and exhaust fumes.

  “What can I do for you, Stone?” he asked, lighting up a cigarette.

  Jesse didn’t bother asking Dragoa to call him by name or Chief. Alexio’s range of public grace wavered between impolite and downright rude. And he had no love for Jesse or any town official. With Jesse, Dragoa’s dislike was more straightforward. He didn’t appreciate the Paradise PD arresting him every time he got into a tussle at a local bar. With the other town officials, Dragoa’s distaste was more amorphous and ingrained. Almost as if it had been passed down from his late father, Altos. The Dragoas had been feuding for decades with the selectmen and every other regulatory agency in town. They wanted to do their work, run their business, and live as they pleased. Whether it was Alexio’s rust-bucket F-150, the condition of his boat, or his refusal to sell a part of his catch dockside during tourist season, he did everything he could to flaunt his distaste for the powers that be.

  “Small haul,” Jesse said, pointing at the retreating crewman.

  “What, you come to bust my chops about not selling part of my catch to the stupid tourists?”

  “I don’t see any tourists.”

  Dragoa laughed, smoke billowing out his mouth and nostrils.

  “Stupid rule,” he said. “The tourists don’t even cook the stuff they buy. They end up throwing it out. Wasting it. It’s a sin to waste the fruit of the sea that way.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So what is it, Stone?”

  “Let me buy you a beer.”

  “No, thanks. You’re okay, not like the other pricks in this town, but I don’t drink with cops.”

  “We can have a beer and talk or we can talk at the station. Your choice, Alexio.”

  “I don’t have to talk to you at all.”

  “True, but I can make you come down to the station anyhow,” Jesse said.

  “What for?”

  “To talk about Maxie Connolly.”

  Jesse thought he caught a twitch at the corner of Dragoa’s lip.

  “Why you wanna talk to me about Mrs. Connolly?”

  “Because she’s dead.”

  There it was again, that twitch. The cigarette fell out of the fisherman’s mouth. That was about the most emotionally expressive thing Jesse had ever seen Dragoa do. Alexio was good at expressing anger, but not much else. Clearly, Maxie’s death hit him hard.

  “How about that beer?” Jesse said.

  “Maybe something stronger.”

  “Sure.”

  Dragoa pushed himself off the boat and began a slow walk toward the Gull.

  32

  In winter, the Gray Gull was empty at that hour of the afternoon. Even so, they tried to stop Dragoa from entering.

  “I can’t let him in here, Jesse,” said the hostess, looking a little panicked. “He’s been banned by the boss. He’s caused too much trouble in here.”


  “What, you buy my goddamned fish but I’m not good enough for this—”

  Jesse cut him off. “It’s okay. He’s with me. It’s official police business. He misbehaves, I’ll just shoot him.”

  The hostess, looking even more panicked, stepped aside. She pointed at a two-top at the rear.

  “I’ll send a waitress over.”

  Jesse had club soda with lime in a tall glass. Dragoa had a double bourbon, which Jesse let the fisherman drink in silence. It was only after he ordered them a second round that Jesse spoke.

  “You confronted Maxie Connolly in the Whaler Lounge last night. What was that about?”

  “I don’t have to talk to you.”

  “You don’t, but I have video of you shoving Maxie Connolly back onto her bar stool last night. A few hours later, she was dead. You want to leave that with no explanation, fine,” Jesse said, purposely not mentioning how Maxie had died.

  “I was in the bar drinking already.”

  “I saw that. Did you know Maxie Connolly? Were you friends with Ginny?”

  Dragoa got a sick look on his face. “No. No. I was older than Ginny. Why you bring her up?”

  “You living in a cave these days, Alexio? We just found Ginny and Mary Kate’s bodies. That’s why Maxie was back in town, to bury her girl.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I know.” Dragoa waved his hand dismissively. “First I hit on her. I had a few in me and every guy in the bar hit on her. I figured, why not? I used to have a thing for her when I was young. Every guy in town did. Then when she blew me off and I got all mad, I felt bad. So I grabbed her arm and apologized. Said I was sorry to hear about Ginny. That’s all.”