Killing the Blues (12 page)

“Why is that,” Suitcase said.

“Because Paradise is my turf,” Jesse said.

They were silent for a while.

“So how was holding Lopresti preemptive,” Suitcase said.

“He led us to Lombardo.”

“And?”

“We're going to put Lombardo out of business.”

“How do you do that?”

“Carefully.”

“Come on, Jesse. I'm trying to learn from you. What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to exceed my authority.”

“In what way?”

“I'm not going to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Because then you'll have deniability in the event you're questioned.”

“You're gonna do what you're gonna do alone,” Suitcase said.

“Yes.”

“And it won't be legal.”

“Correct.”

“How do you know what you're going to do will work?”

“I'm the police chief. I know everything.”

Suitcase stared at Jesse for a while.

Then Jesse paid for breakfast, and they drove back to Paradise.

A
fter an early-morning jog, Jesse fed the cat and made some coffee, which he brought outside to the porch. He settled himself on the love seat to read the paper.

The story of the fire was now old news. Apart from the article regarding safety tips for protecting your dog at night, there was nothing further on the killings. He was about to turn to the sports pages when the cat jumped onto his lap.

He could feel the cat's sharp claws as it made mittens on his leg. He petted it. It began to purr. They stayed that way for some time.

J
esse noticed the two men as soon as he came out of the pet store lugging his newly acquired cat case.

One of them was leaning against a light pole. The other was lounging against a wall. Although each was as wide as he was tall, their upper torsos were raging with steroid-enhanced musculature. Jesse put the case down.

The one closest to him, the wall leaner, walked toward him.

“Mr. Lombardo wants to see you,” he said.

“I don't know any Mr. Lombardo,” Jesse said.

“Makes no matter. You gonna come with us.”

“Gosh, boys, I'd really love to, but I'm afraid I have other plans.”

“Hey, you hear that, Frank? Guy says he's got other plans.”

The two goons began to laugh.

Jesse stepped quickly to the talker and kicked him hard in the balls. The guy looked at Jesse for half a moment, then went down, gasping for breath.

Before Frank could extricate himself from the light pole, Jesse had smashed the bridge of his nose with the edge of his hand. He stepped quickly aside as Frank started to bleed.

“My nose,” he said, his hands flying to his face in order to gingerly explore the fractured remains of his nose.

Jesse turned to goon number one, the talker, lying in a fetal position on the ground.

“Nice work, boys,” he said, as he picked up the cat case and walked to his car.

Z
enith Enterprises,” Healy said, using his cell phone.

“I'm listening,” Jesse said.

“Registered under the name of Geoffrey Bedard, a Boston-based attorney whose specialty is corporate law. Which he practices on behalf of certain underworld organizations. Zenith Enterprises is a repository for a number of corporate entities. I'd venture to guess that upon closer scrutiny of these entities, we'd most likely find considerable sums appearing and disappearing like so many magician's rabbits.”

“Signifying?”

“Laundering would be my guess.”

“So not only is Lombardo selling stolen goods, he's finding ways to hide the proceeds as well.”

“Looks like it.”

“Connected to our friend Mr. Fish?”

“My guys are saying that although they make a public show of solidarity, there's no love lost between Gino and Lombardo. Lombardo muscled his way from Fall River to Boston and is brazenly making a play for greater position. He appears to be posing a threat to Gino.”

“Are the Feds interested?”

“Interested but inert.”

“Because?”

“The story is still unfolding. They have no wish to step on it.”

Jesse didn't say anything.

“The information you've uncovered won't sit well with John Lombardo. He thinks of himself as an invisible man. You've succeeded in rending his cloak of invisibility.”

“Rending his cloak of invisibility?”

“Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”

“Thanks for this.”

“Service is our middle name,” Healy said.

 

 

 

J
esse was on the porch, carefully removing a pane of glass from the floor-to-ceiling French door, which consisted of eight separate panes. He was extricating the bottom-right pane. The cat was perched on the love seat, watching him intently.

He had used a bezel to trim his way around the frame. He had secured the glass with a suction cup, which, when he had completed cutting, he used to pop out the pane.

He then attached a fringed rubber veil to the inside of the window frame, thereby covering the opening.

He looked at the cat, who had been looking at him. He walked to the love seat and picked it up. Remarkably, the cat allowed him to do this. Jesse took the cat to the window and showed him the opening. Then he shoved the cat through the rubber veil and into the house.

The cat immediately turned around and jumped back out.

“Point made,” Jesse said to the cat, who was now at the far end of the porch, bathing.

A
t two a.m., Jesse got out of his Explorer, which was parked down the street from John Lombardo's house. He walked to the house and rang the bell.

After a moment an upstairs light went on. Jesse had only a short wait until he saw a downstairs light and heard someone approaching the door. It opened only as far as the security chain would allow. Jesse was standing in the shadows.

“It's the middle of the fucking night,” John Lombardo said. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Jesse could see that Lombardo was wearing a bathrobe and slippers, and was unarmed.

“Neighborhood watch,” Jesse said. “A patrol officer notified us that a suspicious-looking person was seen in the vicinity of your house. We want to confirm that nothing here is awry.”

“There's been no disturbance here,” Lombardo said.

“May I look inside to make certain that you're under no coercion, sir?”

“Do I look like I'm under coercion?”

“My instructions are to make certain that you're not being held against your will, sir. There have been other incidents in this neighborhood. If you'll allow me to see that you're safe, I'll be on my way. If not, I'm to phone for backup.”

“All right, all right,” Lombardo said.

He closed the door, unchained it, and then reopened it so that Jesse could see inside.

Jesse hit him low, taking his legs out from under him. Lombardo crashed heavily to the floor.

“What the fuck . . .” Lombardo said.

“You wanted to see me,” Jesse said, as he stood Lombardo up and slammed him into the wall.

“You dare to break into my house? My house,” Lombardo said.

“Insolent of me, isn't it,” Jesse said. “Why did you send the two goons?”

“What in the fuck do you think you're doing? Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Listen to me, fat boy,” Jesse said. “One of your associates killed a man in Paradise over a stolen car. I hold you responsible for that killing. Let this be your warning. If you or any of your meatballs show up in Paradise again, I'll kill you.”

Lombardo glared at Jesse.

Jesse smacked him hard in the mouth. Blood appeared on his lower lip.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“You'll pay for this,” Lombardo said.

Jesse smacked him again.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Lombardo mumbled his assent.

Jesse stared at him for several moments.

Then he walked to the door, opened it, and left the house.

T
he next morning, Jesse pulled his cruiser to a stop in front of a commercial building located in the north side of Boston. He parked in front of a fire hydrant and went inside.

He approached the receptionist's desk, where he was greeted by a handsome young man wearing a double-breasted blue blazer and a freshly ironed pair of blue jeans. His powder-blue sport shirt was open at the neck. He eyed Jesse warily.

“I'm here to see Gino Fish,” Jesse said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Mr. Fish isn't in.”

“And if I had an appointment?”

“Who knows.”

“What's your name?”

“Steven. What's yours?”

“Jesse.”

“Do you have a last name, Jesse?”

“Stone.”

“Does Mr. Fish know you?”

“Why don't you ask him?”

“Because he's not in.”

“Look, Steven, this is an old game. You say Mr. Fish isn't in. I ask you to tell him I'm here. Again, you say he isn't in.”

“I'm following you so far.”

“But here's where it gets complicated, so pay close attention. My next line is: If you don't go inside and tell Mr. Fish that I'm waiting to see him, I'm going to call the state homicide commander, who will in turn send ten squad cars packed with dozens of police personnel right to this very door.”

“Why didn't you say so?”

“Can we move this along now, Steven?”

“Jesse Stone, yes?”

“Yes.”

“I'll be right back.”

Steven buzzed himself into Gino's inner sanctum. Jesse meandered around the office, looking at the various paintings and sculptures that were on display there.

Steven returned.

“Mr. Fish is in,” he said.

As Jesse brushed past Steven on his way inside, he punched him lightly on the shoulder.

“Some fun, huh,” he said.

 

 

 

G
ino was seated at his desk, thumbing through a sheaf of papers. Behind him, leaning against a wall, listening through a pair of earbuds to a minuscule iPod, stood Vinnie Morris.

Jesse approached the desk and waited. When he came to the end of a page, Gino looked up at him.

“Jesse Stone,” he said, his face breaking into a crooked grin.

“Ta-da,” Jesse said.

Jesse looked at Vinnie, who nodded to him.

“Sit down, Jesse Stone,” Gino said. “It's so rare we have visitors to our little chapel. What brings you?”

“The force of your personality.”

“It is forceful, isn't it? But then again, so is yours. Or at least that's what I'm hearing.”

Jesse didn't say anything.

“It's amazing to me how deeply you manage to piss people off,” Gino said.

“It's a gift,” Jesse said.

“One that keeps giving,” Gino said.

“Can we quit speaking in tongues, Gino? This associate of yours has become a major nuisance.”

“I'm listening.”

“He not only set up shop in my backyard, but he killed someone in the process. I sent him a warning, which he appears to have ignored. Now it's become personal.”

“I would surmise that the feelings are mutual.”

“This stops now, Gino.”