Robert B. Parker's The Devil Wins

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  The basketball team photo wasn’t perfectly in focus, but it didn’t need to be. Coach Feller looked exactly like Jesse expected him to look. He was a hulking, sourpussed man with his gray hair in a military brush cut. He was dressed in an unfashionable brown suit, a white shirt, a tie that didn’t match, and mean shoes. There were many more familiar faces in the shot. In the back row were two faces he immediately recognized. There were three familiar faces in the front row as well. Two he expected to see and one he had hoped not to. In his years as a street cop, homicide detective, and police chief, Jesse thought he had learned his lesson about hope. He knew better than most just how little purchase hope ever really has.

  82

  It didn’t take long for Bill Marchand to show up in Jesse’s office after the news hit the street that Drew Jameson had escaped from the hospital while under police guard.

  “Jesse, what the hell is going on with you guys?” Marchand was red in the face, and his voice was strained and loud enough to be heard beyond the office door. “The ice you’re on is already thin enough.”

  But Jesse just gave him a crooked smile and gestured for the selectman to sit. “Relax, Bill.”

  “Relax! How can I relax? You guys look like the Keystone Kops. Isn’t it bad enough that—”

  Jesse held up his palms. “Bill, we know who killed the girls. We have two out of three of them.”

  “What are you talking about? Why haven’t I heard any of this?” Marchand asked, finally taking a seat.

  “Because two of them are dead. The bodies of Alexio Dragoa and John Millner washed up on the beach in North Swan Harbor early this morning. Millner shot Dragoa and Dragoa stabbed Millner. They struggled and both fell overboard. Dragoa’s boat drifted into Shelter Cover. Do you know it?”

  Marchand shook his head.

  “Blood everywhere on the boat. We haven’t announced anything yet because we wanted to confirm the identities of the deceased and get the autopsy results. Captain Healy is busy rounding up next of kin of both dead men in order to make the identifications.”

  Marchand asked, “But how do you know they were connected to the murders?”

  “Millner wrote a confession the state forensic guys found on the boat.”

  “John Millner wrote a confession?” Marchand asked.

  “Typed one, yeah. We found the typewriter at the maintenance shed at Sacred Heart. Why, you know Millner?”

  “We played ball together at Sacred Heart. Alexio, too.” Marchand shook his head. “They were both jerks, but I never thought they were capable of this.”

  “Nobody knows anybody, Bill. Not really. When was the last time you saw those guys?”

  “Years ago. Maybe at Coach Feller’s funeral. I mean, we pass each other in town. So about this confession . . .”

  “Pretty detailed. At least we now know for sure who the third body was Molly found the night of the nor’easter. Guy grew up in Paradise. Warren Zebriski. Seems that Zebriski knew about the murders all these years and came back to Paradise to ask the killers to confess. They chose to kill him instead.”

  Marchand bowed his head. “The body was Warren Zebriski’s? Zevon’s?”

  “You and Zebriski close?”

  “I liked him better than those other two morons, but he was closer to Millner.”

  “Bill,” Jesse said, “we’re almost there.”

  “About that, Jesse. You said you had two of the three killers. What am I missing here?”

  Jesse smiled that crooked smile again.

  “I’ve got no doubt that Dragoa and Millner had a hand in killing the girls and that they killed Zebriski, too, but there’s a third hand in all of this. I sensed it from the beginning,” Jesse said, tapping his nose. “And our one witness to any part of it, Lance Szarbo, says there were five people on the rowboat he saw going out to Stiles that Fourth of July. Three guys and two girls. He was drunk, but I think he’s right.”

  “Your nose and a drunken witness. Not much to go on. Did the confession mention someone else?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there you go,” Marchand said. “Why go looking for trouble? You saved your job. You got your killers.”

  “You’re right, and if that was all I had, I’d take the confession at face value, close the cases, and never look back.”

  “But . . .”

  “But I’ve got more,” Jesse said. “I went to visit Jameson in the hospital this afternoon when I got back from Swan Harbor. We had a pretty interesting conversation. It seems he and Zebriski had gotten to be pretty close friends in Arizona. Worked together, used to do drugs together, and pretty much found God together. They even got the same tattoo as a show of solidarity. You’ve seen it. The two-headed rattlesnake around the cross. He explained what it meant. But none of that was half as interesting as the other part of what he had to say.”

  “And that was what?”

  “That he knows who the third killer is.”

  Marchand leaned forward. “Come on, Jesse, I’m on pins and needles here.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Bill, but Jameson wouldn’t tell me. Said he didn’t trust me or my department. And given that he got run down thirty seconds after getting into town, I couldn’t really blame him.”

  “I guess I can see his point. But now you’re screwed. He’s gone with the wind.”

  Jesse shook his head. “No he’s not, but it’s what I want the killer to think. I’m going to let him know where Jameson is. Then all I have to do is sit around and wait for him to show. He’ll have to come after Jameson. Jameson is the only thing standing between him and never having to worry about the murders again. Not in this life, anyway. He’s risked this much. What’s one last risk?”

  “Pretty dangerous to use a witness as bait, Jesse. The liability of the town would be—”

  “I’m not using Jameson as bait, Bill. Give me a little more credit than that. I would never risk a witness’s life that way. I’m going to tell my suspect that I’ve got Jameson stashed at the Helton Motor Inn with one guard on him, but he’s nowhere near there.”

  “So you have an idea who the third killer is?”

  “No, not an idea. I know who he is. I just can’t prove it yet.”

  Marchand had just opened his mouth to speak when there was a knock on the office door.

  “Just one second, Bill. Come.”

  It was Molly.

  “Sorry, Jesse. Sorry, Mr. Selectman.”

  “What is it?” Jesse asked.

  “Our guest is hungry and he says there’s not much in the fridge.”

  Jesse slowly rubbed his palms together as he thought. “Who’s on the desk tonight?”

  “Ed.”

  “No problem.” Jesse looked at his watch. “Ed will be here in a half hour. When he comes on shift, go to the sandwich shop, pick up a few sandwiches, and deliver them to our guest. If you’re feeling generous, pick him up some groceries, too. Keep the receipts. I’ll put you in for two hours of OT.”

  “Thanks, Jesse.” Molly closed the door.

  “Sorry, Bill. What were you saying?”

  “I wasn’t saying anything. You were telling me that you knew who the third killer was, but that you couldn’t prove it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, who is it, for crissakes?”

  “Robbie Wilson. It has to be him. He showed up at the scene of the building collapse almost before Molly had a chance to find the bodies. He was there five minutes before his men. How is that possible? I’ll tell you how. He never left. He was disposing of Zebriski’s body when the building went. Then, when Molly showed, he dragged her out of the building and did everything he could to delay us from getting to the bodies. When I checked around I found out that he was old friends with both Dragoa and Millner. He’s been totally uncooperative with the entire investigation. Then when I
mentioned DNA evidence to the press, bang! Two convenient fires so sloppily set that we never thought to look at the fire chief. Oh, it’s him, all right. I’m going to enjoy nailing his Napoleonic little ass to the wall. We’ve got a major-league trap set at the motel.” Jesse checked his watch again. “And speaking of that, it’s about time for me to buy Robbie a drink and to let some information slip. After that, I’m heading over to Helton to spring the trap.”

  “I’ve got work to do as well.” Marchand stood, shook Jesse’s hand. “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

  “Me, too, Bill. Me, too.”

  83

  Jesse had always been the wild card, the one person in this mess whom he had worried about from the start. Now, as he worked his way through the woods that covered the northern approach to Jesse’s property, he knew he had been right to worry. Everything he’d done since Zevon had shown back up in Paradise was to throw suspicion away from himself and aim it squarely at Alexio and John. Yet in spite of the hoops he’d jumped through and the incredible risks he’d taken to throw Jesse off his scent, Jesse had almost gotten it right. Almost. He’d just picked the wrong suspect.

  Kneeling at the edge of the woods to collect himself before he had to cross the little clearing between the woods and the footbridge that led to Jesse’s house, he laughed to himself. To think that idiot Hasty Hathaway had hired Jesse because he thought Jesse was an easily manipulated, incompetent drunk. As he took deep, slow breaths to calm himself, he went back over the steps he’d taken since he’d left the station house. He wanted to make sure he hadn’t done anything to give himself away, because once he crossed the footbridge and killed Jameson, there would be no going back.

  No, he thought, he had been careful, even more careful than usual. He had hurried back to the office and borrowed one of his junior agents’ cars so that Molly wouldn’t spot his big white Infiniti in her rearview mirror. The agent was only too happy to swap her ten-year-old Chevy Malibu for the boss’s SUV for the night. He had hung far back, following Molly as she went from the sandwich shop to the market. And then when she left the market, he kept so far behind her that he nearly lost her a few times in the falling darkness. Then, when it was obvious to him Molly was headed to Jesse’s house, he turned himself around. He’d gone back to the office and made noises about having a late appointment with a client in Boston. After that, he’d gone home, told his family the same story about a late appointment in Boston, and sent them out for dinner.

  When he was sure they were gone, he went down to the basement and got his classic Mauser K98 bolt-action with scope from the gun safe. If he got lucky, he’d be able to get a clean shot at Jameson through one of Jesse’s windows at a reasonable distance. But because of how Jesse’s house was situated with all the woods and water, he couldn’t count on it. So he took out his cheap Cobra 32 that he’d picked up in the parking lot of a gun show in Tennessee years back. It was basically untraceable. He ejected the clip and thumbed the ammo out of the clip. He put on a pair of latex gloves, reloaded the clip with fresh ammo, wiped down the clip, and wiped down the gun. He loaded the Malibu with the rifle, the pistol, a knife, his hunting camo, and boots. When he was sure he had everything he might need, he took off.

  He hadn’t headed directly over to Jesse’s place. That would have been careless, even reckless. No, first he rode back into town, past the police station, to make sure Jesse’s Explorer was gone. He’d dropped by the firehouse to see if Robbie Wilson was around. Wilson’s silly red Jeep was nowhere in sight, but that didn’t mean he was headed to Helton.

  “Sorry, Mr. Marchand,” said the young volunteer on duty. “Chief said he wouldn’t be available at all tonight.”

  It was only then that the selectman headed out to Jesse’s place.

  Just as he anticipated, he couldn’t get a clear rifle shot at Jameson. Although he could see lights on in two rooms in the house, all the shades and blinds were drawn. Fucking Jesse! He’d made Jameson take precautions, just in case. He could make out flickering from the TV and Jameson’s shadow in the living room, but not clearly enough to risk a shot. If he missed, Jameson would be on the phone and the cops would be there before he could get back to the Malibu, which was hidden in some brush about a quarter-mile back up the road where he’d changed into his camo and boots. Unfortunately, he was going to have to get in close for this. Maybe as close as he had been all those years ago on Stiles Island.

  He checked his watch. Laid the Mauser up against a tree. No sense lugging the rifle around with him. It would only slow him down and get in the way. He’d just pick it up on his way back to the car. One thing was working in his favor. Jameson liked the TV volume turned up high. It was so loud that Marchand could almost make out what show Jameson was watching. Still, Marchand was careful as he crossed the little footbridge across the pond. There were no cars in the driveway. Good. He went to the opposite side of the house, away from the living room, away from where Jameson was watching TV, and moved along the gravel path so as not to leave boot prints. There were no cars around back. Better.

  Marchand was sweating pretty intensely and his mouth was dry. It seemed his heart was nearly as loud as the TV, but he didn’t mind this feeling. He was at his best when stressed to the max. It was that way on the basketball court, in business, in politics, and in murder. He had killed three times now and, though he didn’t like admitting it, it got easier each time. If it were only Alexio and John who had killed the girls, Marchand thought, they would have been caught before they got off the island. Without him they would have been lost. It was his quick thinking that had saved their asses. Now the time had come to finish saving his own.

  He had decided to do it quickly. To break the back door’s glass, open the lock, and charge into the living room before Jameson could react. He’d empty his clip into Jameson, ransack the place, steal something of value, and get out. Poor Jameson. Wrong place, wrong time. If only the thief had known this was the police chief’s house . . . Marchand removed his boots, slipped on his shooting gloves, and racked the Cobra’s slide. He put in his ear protection and took one last deep breath before elbowing through the little glass pane nearest the door handle. Then it all came in a rush. The glass was broken. His hand was undoing the lock. He was through the door, out of the kitchen, past the dining room, and into the living room.

  Perfect. The TV was blaring and Jameson was buried under covers, asleep on the couch.

  Marchand aimed and fired. He kept firing until the clip was empty and the Cobra’s slide locked. The room stank of hot metal and gunpowder. Smoke hung in the air like Jameson’s ghost. With his work done, Marchand removed his earplugs and yanked the TV’s plug out of the socket. The room was deadly quiet. Marchand turned to go upstairs to see what valuables of Jesse’s he could take, but he got the sense that something wasn’t right. He stood dead still and listened. When he heard the hammer click back, he knew what it was.

  84

  Jesse stepped out of the shadows, his .38 coming into the light before him.

  “You shouldn’t have emptied the clip,” Jesse said, his voice steady and cool.

  “With you there holding your gun on me, yeah, in retrospect, that was pretty dumb. If I left myself some ammo, I might’ve had a fighting chance. But there are a lot of things I wish I could take back.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, Bill. We’ll have time to discuss that later. For now, drop your weapon and kick it over to me. Slowly. Any sudden movement at all and I’ll shoot.”

  Marchand did as he was told.

  Jesse asked, “Do you have any other weapons on you?”

  “A knife.” Marchand tilted his head at his left hip.

  “Same drill,” Jesse said. “On the floor. Kick it over. I would hate to have to kill you, Bill, but if you force my hand, I won’t think twice about it.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Marchand noticed his voice was brittle.

  Jes
se asked, “Anything else?”

  “There’s a rifle out across the footbridge, but no, nothing else on me.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, Bill, would you?”

  “Never have before.”

  Jesse laughed. “Is that your nose I see growing?”

  “Never before all this, I mean,” Marchand said, feeling weak, the adrenaline draining out of him.

  “Now, do exactly what I tell you to do the way I tell you to do it. Hands on your head. Turn around. Get on your knees as slowly as possible. I’ve had to kill men before and I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

  As Jesse was cuffing him, Marchand said, “So you know what it’s like to kill.”

  “Kill, not murder.”

  “Not so different,” Marchand said.

  “There aren’t any two things more different in the world.”

  Jesse sat Marchand down in a chair as he called in to the station.

  “How did you know it was me, Jesse?”

  “I wasn’t one hundred percent sure, not until today. After all the elaborate stuff you went through to cover yourself, it was the little things.”

  “Always is.”

  “Not always.”

  “What was it, then?” Marchand asked.

  “Why, Bill, you want to make sure you don’t make the same mistakes next time? There isn’t going to be a next time.”

  “Humor me.”

  “I knew it was you for sure when you lied about not knowing Shelter Cove. The whole time I was hoping it wasn’t you, but when you lied about that . . . When I was at Shelter Cove, it looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember why. Then on the ride back to town, it hit me.”