Robert B. Parker's The Devil Wins

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  “You come up with anything yesterday?”

  Suit stood and motioned for Jesse to come into the conference room.

  “What’s up?” Jesse asked when Suit closed the conference room door.

  Suit smiled that big goofy smile of his. “I got two witnesses said they spotted a white van in the area. One witness at each location. Their statements are on your desk.”

  “We get a description of the van beyond it being white?”

  “We did. Both witnesses say the van was pretty banged up. One says he thinks it was a Chevy.”

  “Thinks or is pretty sure?” Jesse wanted to know.

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Beat-up white van sound familiar to you, Suit?”

  “John Millner.”

  Jesse said, “Great minds think alike.” He clapped Suit on the shoulder. “Good work.”

  “It gets better. Last night Millner called in after we were both gone and—”

  “Reported his van was stolen.”

  Suit’s smile got even broader. “Some coincidence, huh?”

  “Remarkable.”

  “Sounds like somebody’s covering his ass to me.”

  “To me, too,” Jesse said. “We get a description of the driver from either witness?”

  Suit shook his head. “Nothing solid. Sorry. One witness thought he saw a tall man in blue work clothes by the O’Hara garage, but wouldn’t swear to it.”

  “Could be Millner,” Jesse said.

  Suit agreed. “Sounds like him. Should I send somebody around to pick John up for questioning?”

  “Not yet. Maybe later the two of us will go have a little talk with him. Give me a few minutes in my office and then send Robbie in.”

  “It felt good to be on the street again, Jesse.”

  “I know.” He patted Suit’s biceps. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  Jesse sat down at his desk and picked up the phone to call Tamara Elkin to apologize for his behavior. He put the phone down. He thought he should get a better sense of what was going on with him before he called. It was his experience that a call too soon was worse than no call at all. He pulled out his bottom drawer and looked at his office bottle. He thought about it for a few seconds, then closed the drawer.

  Robbie Wilson knocked on the door and stepped into the office without waiting for the come-ahead. That was Robbie Wilson to a T. Jesse could only imagine the fit Robbie would have thrown if Jesse just strolled into Robbie’s office without permission.

  “Chief Stone.”

  “Robbie.” Jesse nodded toward the chair in front of his desk.

  “No, thanks. I’m just here to give you these.” He placed two folders on Jesse’s desk. “They’re the preliminary reports on yesterday’s fires. I knew you’d want them. We’re declaring them both arson. An accelerant was used in both fires, probably the same one. My guess, it was gasoline, but we won’t know until we get the full analysis back from the lab. The idiot didn’t even use a lighter. We found matches at both scenes.”

  Jesse laughed, remembering that Tamara had brought up the old saying about criminals having half a brain.

  “I say something funny, Chief?”

  Jesse shook his head.

  “I heard Marchand bought your boys new uniforms for the softball season. I didn’t ask our sponsor yet. I guess you beat me to the punch on that one, Stone.”

  “Not everything is a competition, Robbie.”

  “Yes it is. Everything’s competition. That’s what Coach Feller used to say. Used to tell us that anyone who doesn’t realize everything’s a competition is a loser and will always finish second.”

  “Coach Feller?”

  “He was a legend around here. Coached basketball at Sacred Heart Boys Catholic for thirty years.”

  “No offense, Robbie, but you don’t look like much of a b-ball player,” Jesse said as diplomatically as he could manage.

  “Wasn’t. Football was my game. But I was team manager for the basketball team. It was an honor just to be around Coach.”

  “Were you manager when a guy named Warren played?”

  “Zevon? Sure.”

  Jesse made a face. “Warren Zevon, like the rock star?”

  “His name was Warren Zebriski, but everybody called him Zevon. Small forward. Stupid asshole had a full scholarship and just pissed it away.” Wilson shook his head in disgust. “Came home after his first year and never went back to school.”

  Jesse was curious. “What happened to him?”

  Robbie shrugged. “I don’t really know. Heard he just left town that summer. Why do you ask?”

  “Forget it. Thanks for these.” Jesse held up the files. “Let me know when you get the full lab report back.”

  Wilson turned on his heel and left. Jesse suddenly had a much better understanding of Robbie Wilson. Some people, he thought, never do graduate from high school.

  60

  Jesse let Suit drive the cruiser over to Sacred Heart. He knew it would please Suit to be in control. Jesse sat quietly looking out at the streets of Paradise. He still couldn’t get past how that nor’easter had blown through town and, in a few short hours, blown up his illusions all at once. He had thought that after a decade-plus as police chief Paradise was finally his town, that he had its measure, knew its rhythms. But it seemed to him now that illusion, not knowledge, was exactly what he had until the night of the storm.

  Suit broke the silence. “So why would a guy like Millner set fire to those houses?”

  “He’s a punk. Somebody probably hired him to do it.”

  “But who?”

  Jesse smiled. “That’s the big question. We find out who hired him, we’re one step closer to our killer.”

  “You think there was only one killer?”

  Jesse shrugged. “Let’s start with one and work our way up. If there’s more than one, when the first one falls, they’ll all fall. It’s one thing for a guy to take a burglary rap for someone else. Do your bit, keep your mouth shut. I haven’t met too many people willing to take the fall to protect someone else from a murder rap. Not many people worth doing twenty-five to life for.”

  “But some do?”

  “Gang members do it.”

  Suit made a face. “Why?”

  “Sociologists will tell you it’s part of the gang mentality, part of the macho culture and the brotherhood code.”

  “You don’t buy that, do you, Jesse?”

  “Makes for good textbooks. The truth is uglier.”

  “Uglier?”

  Jesse said, “Roll over on your gang brothers and there’s a big price to pay. Even if you snitch, you’re still going to do time. Prison is the loneliest place in the world without protection, and about the most dangerous. If you think gangs are bad news on the street, they’re worse in close quarters. You got black gangs, Muslim gangs, white supremacist gangs, Hispanic gangs, Asian gangs. The list is long and you don’t want to be in that shitstorm without an umbrella. You keep your mouth shut and your head down, you’ve got protection. Maybe your family on the outside gets taken care of. You snitch and maybe it’s not only you who pays the price.”

  Jesse could see that Suit was thinking about that. Then Suit’s expression changed.

  “You know, Jesse, we never talked about what happened after I got out of the hospital. Not really.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “You’re going for your sessions, right?”

  “I told you I was,” Suit said, his voice tinged with anger and impatience. “You know, Jesse, it’s not like I was trying to get shot.”

  Jesse felt the pressure building, but kept it in.

  Suit wasn’t through. “I was only doing what you are always at me to do. I thought you would need help, and you’re not the kind of man to
ask for help. I was just trying to help, is all.”

  Jesse’s jaw was clamped so tight his teeth ached.

  “I’m not stupid, Jesse. I know what you think of me as a cop.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jesse asked, knowing exactly what it meant.

  “Nothing. Just forget it.”

  “We’ll talk about this later.”

  “Sure, Jesse.”

  As they walked to the door of the maintenance shed, it seemed to Jesse that Suit’s steps were once again slow and labored.

  61

  John Millner, his unkempt black hair hanging limp around his shoulders, was busy sharpening a mower blade when Jesse and Suit walked into the maintenance shed on the grounds of Sacred Heart. Millner barely acknowledged their presence, choosing instead to continue scraping a metal rasp along the edge of the blade clamped in the jaws of an old bench vise. Dressed in blue, oil-stained coveralls and scuffed black work boots, Millner wore a pair of protective goggles that, like all the equipment in the shed, had seen better days. The plastic of the goggles was scratched and pitted, the lenses grown foggy with age. A silver-colored space heater shaped like a radar dish sat on the concrete floor a few paces to Millner’s right, its caged element glowing a fierce orange-red. As fierce as it was, it did little to warm the drafty old building. The winds outside rattled the corrugated bay door.

  Millner took off his right work glove and ran his index finger along the edge of the freshly sharpened blade. Satisfied, he twisted the vise handle, releasing the blade from the vise’s wood-covered jaws. He slipped his glove back on and took the blade fully into his hand. He turned to face Suit and Jesse, showing them his handiwork.

  “Little snowy outside to be mowing lawns, isn’t it?” Suit asked.

  Millner sneered at him. “Shows what you know. You do your prep and maintenance work for the spring now. You don’t wait till the grass is up to your balls to sharpen the blades.”

  Suit wasn’t having it. “They teach you that in the joint between soap swapping with the boys in the shower?”

  “Nah, I learned watching the movie about that tall retard, Sling Blade. Tall retard, kinda reminds me of some cops I know. No offense, Officer Simpson.” Millner smiled a crooked smile full of nasty teeth.

  Jesse didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way Millner was acting. There was a little too much cockiness in him. Then again, he didn’t like Millner from the get-go. Still, he didn’t say a word.

  “You boys find my van? That why you’re here? Did you deliver it to me?” Millner asked, placing the sharpened blade on the bench and removing the goggles. “That’s pretty good service. You boys have it washed and detailed for me?”

  It took a lot to push Suit to lose his temper, but Millner had done a pretty good job of it.

  “Listen to me, you piece of—”

  “That’s right, John, we’re here to talk about your van,” Jesse said, cutting Suit off. “But we haven’t found it.”

  “Then what, you here to give me a status report or something?”

  Jesse nodded. “Or something.”

  “You mind hurrying up, then? I’ve got another blade to get to and a ton of other work to do.”

  “We don’t mind, do we, Suit?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “John, what took you so long to report your van as stolen?” Jesse asked.

  “’Cause I didn’t know it was gone till I got back home last night.”

  Suit said, “So you didn’t drive it to work?”

  Millner shook his head. “Nah. The tranny’s been giving me a little trouble lately, so I got a lift in and a ride to the bar after work.”

  Suit made a sad face. “That’s too bad, about your transmission, I mean. So who gave you the rides? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Sure, Officer Simpson, anything to help the cause of justice,” Millner said, putting the next mower blade into the bench vise. “I got a ride in from Sister Marie Frances and Father Bogan took me to the Scupper after work. He let me buy him a beer, as a matter of fact. I walked home from there. That’s when I called in that my van was stolen.”

  “Did you leave the grounds during your shift?” Jesse asked.

  Millner placed the goggles back on top of his head. “Yesterday? I don’t think so, Chief. Nah. I spent most of the day in the rectory, fixing a leak in the kitchen. You can go on over and see the patch on the wall yourself. I had to remove tiles to get at the pipe.” He plopped the goggles down on his nose, slipped on his gloves again, and started working on the second blade.

  Between the glowing steel of the space heater and the grinding of the file against the blade, the air in the shed had taken on a distinctly metallic scent. Suit looked at Jesse for their next move.

  “Okay, John,” Jesse said, “we’ll leave you to your work.”

  Millner kept his focus on his sharpening. “That’s real good of you, Chief. You’ll find Sister Marie Frances in the main office. Father Bogan is in the gym at the boys’ high school. And do me a favor, huh? Let me know when you find my van. I sure do love that old truck.”

  Jesse and Suit were both thankful for the cold, bracing air outside the shed. Suit reached into the cruiser and came out with two bottled waters. They both tried to rinse away that raw, metallic tang.

  “You go talk to the nun,” Jesse said. “I’ll take the priest. Let’s meet back here in fifteen minutes.”

  “You see all the chemicals and stuff in there. Like a department store of accelerants.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So what do you think, Jesse?”

  “I think someone was trying really hard to establish an alibi for himself for yesterday.”

  “Almost like he knew he would have to account for his whereabouts.”

  “Yeah, Suit. Just like that. Makes you wonder about things.”

  “What things?”

  “Everything, Suit,” he said, walking toward the boys’ high school. “Everything.”

  62

  Jesse was back in his office, pounding a hardball into the pocket of his old Rawlings glove. The leather in the pocket of the glove was nearly a memory. Any padding in the glove had long since been beaten into dust and disappeared. He stared at the glove as he pounded the ball, each impact making a loud thwack that echoed through the station, each impact stinging his left palm. He remembered back to when his left hand, his glove hand, was so accustomed to rocket line drives and relay throws from the outfield that came in like shotgun slugs that he barely noticed them. That had been a long time ago now, longer with each passing breath. But he didn’t mind the stinging. It helped him think and he had a lot to think about. What he was thinking about in particular at that moment was John Millner and his alibi.

  Although the maintenance man’s alibi held up to scrutiny, Jesse didn’t doubt for a second that John Millner was somehow involved in the arson from the tips of his steel-toed boots to the tip of his fist-flattened nose. Mutts like Millner knew a hundred other lowlifes who would do dirty work for pay, who would set their own grannies’ houses afire for a few six-packs and a hundred-dollar bill. But why had Millner made himself so conspicuous? The answer was unsettling and simple: He was giving cover to someone else.

  It didn’t remind Jesse of anything so much as a magic trick. The magician is waving one hand with a flourish to get your attention while doing the real business with his other hand. The thing was, John Millner was no magician. The guy could barely keep himself out of prison, let alone pull a rabbit out of a hat. That was the unsettling part. If it wasn’t Millner pulling the strings, who was pulling Millner’s? And what was the endgame? What was the trick? That’s what he was asking himself when there was a knock on the pebbled glass of his office door.

  “Come,” he said, folding the ball into the glove and placing the glove in its spot of honor on his desk.

  Bill Marchand stuck his head th
rough the door. “You sure this is a good time?”

  Jesse laughed. “No, but come in anyway.”

  Marchand sat across from Jesse, dispensing with the usual handshake.

  “My week’s not up,” Jesse said.

  “It’s not, but the fires yesterday aren’t helping me help your cause any.”

  “You’re just pissed off because you’ve probably got to pay on those policies.”

  “Only one of them.” Marchand winked. “Can a man get something to drink in here?”

  Jesse didn’t answer. He just reached into his desk drawer, pulled out the bottle, and poured a few fingers for the selectman. As he poured, Jesse studied Marchand out of the corner of his eye. He was back in form, looking his usual well-put-together self. Jesse was glad he hadn’t been a party to the meetings where his fate was being discussed. He suspected that Bill had fought the good fight, but in the end Marchand was a politician and politicians did a strange kind of calculus. Deal-making is like sausage-making, not usually a pretty sight to behold. Jesse was fairly sure that when push came to shove, Bill Marchand held his nose and threw Jesse to the wolves. He didn’t blame Marchand, nor had it changed his opinion of the man.

  “Nothing for you?” Marchand asked when Jesse slid the drink across his desk.

  “That’s all I need, to drink on the job in front of a selectman. No, thanks, Bill. I want the rest of my seven days.”

  “Come on, Jesse, I would never report that. You know me.”

  “I don’t think you’d report me, Bill. But that second thing you said, that’s wrong. Nobody knows anybody else. Not really. Cops learn that early on or they don’t stay cops for long. Go ahead, drink up. Cheers.”

  Marchand nodded, raised his glass, and drank. “So, any progress on any fronts?”

  “Some.”