Death In Paradise (13 page)

"If there's something going on with young girls, it doesn't seem to be going on here."

"Not while we're looking," Kelly said.

"Which, between us, is most of the time."

"But not all," Kelly said.

"No."

They were silent. The heat pressed on them. The street was nearly empty. The metal exterior of the car was too hot to touch.

"You're putting a lot of time on this," Kelly said.

Jesse nodded.

A single yellow cab rolled by, going slowly, as if it were too hot to drive fast.

"I worked homicide for a while," Kelly said. "I always hated it when it was a kid."

"Yes."

They were quiet again. Kelly shrugged.

"Not every case gets solved," Kelly said. "You worked homicide for a while. You know that."

"I do," Jesse said.

They were quiet again.

"I'm up the street," Kelly said after a while. "You want to go see that nun, I can sit here and do nothing for a while."

"That would be good," Jesse said.

"You find out anything interesting, you'll let me know."

"I will," Jesse said.

 

 

The basement room was cool. There was an air conditioner in the window near the ceiling. Sister Mary John was wearing cutoff jeans and a tank top.

When Jesse came in, he said, "Jesse Stone."

"I remember," Sister said.

"You have something helpful? About Billie Bishop?"

"I don't know. Most of the girls that we have here come and go without a trace. We have a first name, or a nickname, and no last name, and no address. They are not required to tell us any more about themselves than they wish to. Our rules are simple. No drugs. No alcohol. No sex partners."

"Sex partners?"

Sister smiled.

"Some years ago one of the girls was using the shelter as a place to ply her trade. We cannot allow a bordello to operate under our auspices, so we added a 'no men' rule."

"And things changed, so in the interests of sexual equality…" Jesse said.

"You understand," Sister said.

"I do. We now call our people police officers."

"It is good to be current," Sister said.

"It is," Jesse said. "Billie Bishop?"

"Some of the girls, like Billie, when they depart, leave us a phone number or forwarding address. It occurred to me that if I went through our file of those, I might find a pattern."

Sister paused. Jesse waited.

"And I believe I have," Sister said.

"Sister, social worker, counselor, sleuth," Jesse said.

"A renaissance nun," Sister said. "There were, in the past five years, fifteen girls who left us a phone number or address. There was no correlation among the addresses, but in the last year two of them left the same phone number."

"Did they leave here at the same time?" Jesse said.

"No. They left about six months apart."

"Did they overlap?"

"You mean were they here at the same time? No."

"Did you call the number?"

"I did."

"And?"

"It is no longer in service."

"But you have written it down for me."

"Yes."

Sister handed Jesse a piece of blue-lined notepaper with a phone number written on it in a very smooth and graceful hand.

"In this area code?" Jesse said.

"Yes."

Jesse took the notepaper and folded it and tucked it into his right hip pocket.

"Can you find out who had that number?" Sister said.

"Yes."

"Do you think it will be helpful?"

"We'll see," Jesse said. "Do you have anything else?"

"No. I'm sorry."

"No need to be sorry, Sister. You do good work."

"God's work," she said.

It was odd to hear her talk that way, Jesse thought. Even though he called her Sister, he didn't think of her, in her tank top and shorts and ornate Nike running shoes, as religious.

"He's lucky to have you," Jesse said.

 

 

Across the table, through the candle flicker, Jenn's face looked like no other. Objectively, Jesse knew there were other women as good-looking as Jenn. But that was, at best, a factual conceit. At the center of his self, Jesse knew that she was the most beautiful woman in existence.

"You don't see that Abby person anymore, do you?" Jenn said.

She was wearing a short red-and-blue flowered dress with thin shoulder straps. When he had arrived at her condo, Jesse had noticed the amount of leg showing between the hem of the dress and the top of her high black boots.

"No," Jesse said. "Not socially."

"How about Marcy Campbell?"

On the table between them was a bottle of Riesling, a bottle of Merlot and a bottle of sparkling water. Jesse poured her some Riesling and himself some sparkling water.

"I see Marcy sometimes," Jesse said. "We're friends."

"Sex?" Jenn said.

"Do I ask you about your sex life?"

"Yes," Jenn said. "You do."

"And do you tell me about it?" Jesse said.

"I admit to one."

"Me, too," Jesse said.

The table was set with linen napkins and good china. Jenn always liked a nice table. On a board between them she had set out an assortment of cheeses. There was French bread on a cutting board. There were apples and black grapes in a bowl.

"You don't want to walk into the sunset with Marcy," Jenn said.

"No. We're friends. We sleep together sometimes. Neither of us wants to marry the other one."

"She came to see me after Stiles Island," Jenn said. "We talked about you."

Jesse sliced some bread, took a piece, and ate it with some blue cheese. He sipped some sparkling water. With the good bread and the strong cheese, the sparkling water tasted thin.

"She likes you," Jenn said. "She wondered what the future was for you and me."

"What did you tell her?" Jesse said.

"That I didn't know."

"At least you're consistent," Jesse said.

"Anyone else in your life?" Jenn said.

"Woman who's a school principal in Swampscott."

"And of course you're sleeping with her, too."

Jesse nodded.

He felt the hot feeling he always felt with Jenn when they talked about sex: anger, and desperation, and excitement, and confusion. About her, about himself.

"I like her," he said.

"Because you can fuck her?" Jenn said.

"No. The other way," Jesse said. "I can fuck her because I like her."

Jenn turned her wineglass by the stem. Jesse drank some more sparkling water. He hated the insufficiency of the water. It was like breathing at a high altitude.

"And you like her why?"

"She's smart," Jesse said. "She's good-looking, she seems nice, and she likes baseball."

"You know I date," Jenn said.

"Yes."

"I often sleep with my dates," Jenn said.

"I know," Jesse said.

Jenn stopped twirling her wineglass and drank from it.

"And still," Jenn said. "Here we are."

"And where is that?"

"Between a rock and a hard place," Jenn said. "I can't be with you and I can't give you up."

Jesse got up and went to the cupboard in Jenn's kitchen and found a bottle of Dewar's scotch. He put a lot of ice in a big glass, and poured a lot of the Dewar's over it. He brought the glass back to the table.

"So much for sparkling water," Jenn said.

"So much."

Jesse took a large swallow. He could feel it spread through him. His breathing seemed deeper. He could handle this.

"I meet men I like," Jenn said. "I find them attractive. I think I could, if not marry them, maybe, at least live with them. And I can't."

Jesse took another drink. Usually he had it with soda.

"Because?"

"On the surface it's because they turn out to be badly flawed. Drink too much, or selfish, or womanizers, or dishonest, or emotional cripples, or people for whom sex is entirely about them… something. And I have to break up with them."

Jesse waited.

"My shrink says maybe their flaws are their appeal."

Jesse was quiet. Jenn finished the wine in her glass and Jesse poured her some more.

"He says maybe I find this kind of man because it's what I deserve for leaving you," Jenn said. "And maybe it ensures that I won't marry them and leave you for good."

The scotch was working. The hard weight in his center was less.

"And all this is unconscious?" Jesse said.

"Mostly," Jenn said. "But it's right. I know it is. It resonates the way something does when it's right."

"So you don't want to leave me for good."

"I can't," Jenn said. "I can't even think about a life without you in it."

"But you don't want to be my wife again."

"I don't know. God Jesus, don't you think if I knew what to do I would do it? Sometimes I get so scared of losing you I can't breathe."

"And when you think about coming back?" Jesse said.

"I get so scared I can't breathe," Jenn said.

Jesse drank the rest of his scotch. He got up and went to the kitchen and got more ice and more scotch and brought it back to the table. He sat across from her with the candlelight moving softly between them. Jenn put her hand out on the tabletop toward him.

"I'll get better," Jenn said. "I'm doing good in therapy. I'll get better."

Jesse put his hand on top of hers.

"Well," he said, "I think my best bet is to hang around and see how it comes out."

Jenn started to cry gently. Jesse patted her hand. He knew how she felt.

 

 

Jesse had a lunch scheduled with Norman Shaw on Paradise Neck at the Boat Club. He arrived a few minutes late and found Shaw at the bar, talking with someone.

"Chief Stone," Shaw said. "Michael Wasserman."

Jesse shook the man's hand.

"Wasserman's organizing an event," Shaw said. "And I'm agreeing to be honorary chair."

Jesse nodded.

"I'll get a table," Jesse said. "You can join me when you're through."

"I always sit at the same table," Shaw said. "Just tell the girl you're joining me."

The table was at the window, and from it, Jesse could see the town proper, rising up from its working waterfront, to the town hall bell tower at the top of the hill. He watched Shaw shake hands again with Michael Wasserman and come across the room toward him. Shaw had on cream-colored slacks and a raspberry-colored linen jacket over a forest green polo shirt.

"Great view, isn't it?" he said as he sat down.

"Yes."

A gray-haired motherly looking waitress appeared immediately.

"Want a drink?" Shaw said.

"Iced tea," Jesse said.

Shaw made a face as if the thought of iced tea were repellent.

"Ketel One on the rocks," he said without looking at the waitress. "Twist."

"Thank you, Mr. Shaw," the waitress said, and plodded away.

Shaw picked up a menu.

"Food's mediocre here," he said. "But the view's great and they mix you a hell of a cocktail."

Jesse thought about the mixing skill involved in putting together a vodka on the rocks. What Shaw meant is what most drinkers meant. The drinks were large.

The waitress brought their drinks, took their lunch order, and left them alone. The vodka was in a wide lowball glass. Shaw took a long pull on it, the way people drink beer.

"So, Stone," Shaw said, leaning back in his chair. "What can I do for you?"

As he spoke he didn't look at Jesse. He looked around the room.

"I'm interested in your relationship with Gino Fish."

Shaw continued to scan the room. "Why?" he said.

"His name came up in a case," Jesse said.

"What case?"

"Have you spent much time with Gino?" Jesse said.

"What's this about? You talked with my wife, didn't you? Gino's a casual friend."

Shaw spotted someone on the other side of the dining room, and smiled, and nodded and with his forefinger made a little jabbing gesture of recognition.

"Michael DeSisto," Shaw said. "Runs some kind of school out in Stockbridge."

"When did you see Gino last?" Jesse said.

Shaw nodded at someone else, near the bar. He shrugged in answer to Jesse's question.

"I see a lot of people," Shaw said. "Hard to keep track."

"I always thought writers were alone a lot," Jesse said.

He had in fact never thought that, but he needed to keep Shaw talking. Jesse was pretty sure that Shaw would not stop with one vodka.

"When I write, I write," Shaw said. "When I party, I party. What is it you're after, Stone?"

Jesse smiled his friendliest smile, but it didn't help anything, because Shaw wasn't looking at him. He was still looking around the dining room. Jesse wondered if he was desperate to be recognized, or if maybe it was a posture, designed to show Jesse how little importance Shaw attached to him.

"No idea," Jesse said. "I'm hoping I'll know it when I see it."

Shaw nodded without paying much attention and gestured at the waitress. Without further instructions she brought him another vodka. Jesse smiled to himself. Boozers were predictable, Jesse thought, and don't I know it. When the drink came, Shaw picked it up and stood.

"Excuse me a minute," he said. "Got to say hello to an old friend."

Standing, he took a swallow of the vodka and then carried the glass with him to a table of four well-groomed women having lunch. He stood with a hand on the back of a chair, bending over the table, holding his drink in the other hand. He said something. The women laughed. Jesse waited. Shaw had as much swagger, Jesse thought, as a guy with a potbelly, skinny legs, and a silly haircut could achieve. The women laughed again. Shaw laughed with them. Then he kissed one of them on her perfect blond head and came back to Jesse's table. As he walked past the waitress, he murmured to her. Shaw sat back down across from Jesse and looked out at the harbor.

"I've fucked all four of those broads at one time or another," Shaw said.

"Isn't that nice for you," Jesse said. "When's the last time you saw Gino Fish?"