He took a bowl from the shelf, and got a half-gallon jug of milk from the refrigerator. He brought them both outside. He placed the bowl on the deck and filled it with milk.
He went back to the kitchen and filled another bowl with dry food, which he took outside and placed next to the milk.
Then he went inside.
He finished his scotch and poured himself another. He sat down in front of the TV with his take-out turkey burger and fries.
He turned on the old-movie channel and watched a bit of the Marx Brothers in
Horse Feathers.
He admired Harpo's ability to always remain silent.
Afterward he went back outside. Although the cat remained unseen, Jesse noticed that the dry food had been eaten and most of the milk was gone.
He turned off the porch lights and poured himself another scotch. He took note of the fact that it was his third of the night. The scotch hadn't erased the look in Mrs. Lytell's eyes, which continued to haunt him. He poured himself another.
He stopped short of drinking it, however. He knew he was on the edge. He put the glass down, climbed the stairs, and went to bed.
7
S
o that's why you phoned me,” Dix said.
“Yes,” Jesse said.
Jesse sat back in the chair opposite Dix, who was drinking a mug of coffee.
“Because you almost got wasted?”
“Yes.”
“And you almost got wasted because . . . ?”
“Something about the look in that woman's eyes. They seemed so violated.”
“Was there anything else?”
“The phone call.”
“You were upset by Cronjager's call?”
“I might have been.”
“And you wanted to discuss it with me.”
“Yes.”
“If we're gonna get anywhere, you'll have to stop giving me one-word answers,” Dix said.
“You're asking questions that only require one-word answers.”
“Is this gonna be as hard as I think it'll be?”
“Maybe,” Jesse said.
“Okay. What exactly was it about Cronjager's call that upset you?”
“When I took down this Rollo Nurse character, I was in terrible shape. Jenn was fucking Elliot. I had moved out of my house. I was drinking heavily.”
“And?”
“And I took it out on Rollo Nurse.”
“You hurt him.”
“Badly. Don't get me wrong. He was an arrogant son of a bitch. I didn't like him. At first sight I didn't like him. So when he gave me all this attitude and refused to obey my commands, I decked him.”
“With your fist?”
“With my fist and the butt end of my pistol.”
“You mean you hit him in the head with your pistol,” Dix said.
“Yes.”
“More than once?”
“Three times. I'm pretty certain that I fractured his skull.”
Dix didn't say anything.
“I did fracture his skull, okay? I could hear it. I can still hear it. I was wasted, and I exercised no restraint.”
“What did the doctors say?”
“That he might not fully recover. That he might suffer residual damage.”
“Such as,” Dix said.
“Headaches. Lapses in memory. Dementia.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“At the time, I felt nothing. Later, I began to feel guilty,” Jesse said.
“Guilty for?”
“For wasting some piece of detritus who perhaps deserved better.”
“And if you had it to do all over again?”
“I'm afraid that if he shows up here and starts acting cute, I might have to kill him.”
“And you want me to do what for you,” Dix said.
“Help me to exercise restraint.”
“Because?”
“Because I'm not certain I'll be able to control myself.”
“Because?”
“Because he's a shitbag.”
Dix didn't say anything.
“Despite the fact that I hurt him and that my reasons for hurting him were more related to my own issues than to his, it worries me that this thing still isn't over and that in all likelihood I'm gonna have to kill him.”
“And,” Dix said.
“And in an odd way, I'm looking forward to it.”
8
S
uitcase was waiting when Jesse pulled his cruiser to a stop in front of the station.
“Get in,” Jesse said.
Suitcase did, and they pulled away from the curb.
“Anything on the killing,” Suit said.
“Nothing.”
“Where are we going?”
“On a training mission,” Jesse said.
“A training mission?”
“Police work isn't all fun and games, Suit. A good cop needs to be properly trained. I took a number of classes before I qualified for the LAPD.”
“I only took one,” Suit said.
“Which is why it's important that you listen and learn. I want you involved in this car theft business.”
“I thought Rich Bauer was involved in it.”
“He was,” Jesse said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I want him less involved.”
“Because?”
“Because he's a nitwit.”
Suitcase didn't say anything.
“And he tries my patience.”
Suitcase still didn't say anything.
“I want you on this, Suit.”
“So you think it will escalate?”
“I know it will.”
“How do you know?”
“Coply intuition,” Jesse said.
He pulled to a stop in a no-parking zone directly in front of the Town Hall. They got out of the car and went inside.
Carter Hansen was standing in front of his office when Jesse and Suitcase arrived.
“So now we have a killing on our hands,” Hansen said.
“Why don't we dispense with the niceties and get right down to business,” Jesse said.
“I'm not a big fan of your sarcasm, Stone,” Hansen said. “What are you going to do?”
Hansen ushered them into his office and sat down at his desk. Jesse and Suitcase sat opposite him.
“We'd love some,” Jesse said.
“Excuse me,” Hansen said.
“Coffee. We'd love some,” Jesse said.
After a moment, Hansen picked up the phone and dialed a number.
“Marilyn, would you please bring some coffee for Chief Stone and Officer Simpson.”
He hung up the phone.
“What are you doing about this killing, Stone,” Hansen said.
“Jesse,” Jesse said. “I much prefer Jesse.”
Hansen glared at him.
“I need you to purchase a couple of vehicles,” Jesse said.
“You need me to do what?”
“I need two vehicles. Both Hondas. One Civic. One Accord. Used.”
“May I ask what for,” Hansen said.
“I'm going to use them as bait.”
“This has something to do with the car thefts,” Hansen said.
“It does,” Jesse said.
“Do you believe that the killing and the car thefts are related?”
Jesse didn't say anything.
The door to Hansen's office opened, and a middle-aged woman entered carrying a tray filled with two cups of coffee, a small pitcher of milk, and a handful of sugar packets. She placed it on the sideboard, smiled at the two officers and left.
“Are you planning to catch them by using these vehicles,” Hansen said.
“Not exactly,” Jesse said, sipping his coffee.
“Then what are you planning to do?”
“I'm not going to tell you.”
“You're not going to tell me?”
“That's correct,” Jesse said. “How do I go about requisitioning the Hondas?”
“Now, wait just a minute,” Hansen said. “Why do you think that the board of selectmen would purchase these vehicles without knowing what you're planning to do with them?”
“Because I'm the police chief.”
“Well, I won't,” Hansen said.
Jesse sat silently.
Suitcase sat silently.
Hansen sat silently.
Finally, Jesse broke the silence.
“You're going to purchase these vehicles because you have no wish to see car theft and murder destroy the summer season,” he said. “If the media were to connect this killing to our current crime wave, you can just imagine how that story would play. You might as well post a âtown closed for the summer' sign in front of the speed trap.”
Hansen continued to sit silently.
Finally, he said, “Have the dealership send the bill to me directly. And in the future, Chief Stone, please refer to it as the entrance to Paradise, not the speed trap.”
9
J
esse parked the cruiser in front of Hathaway's Previously Owned Quality Vehicles. The building had once been home to a Saturn dealership, but when General Motors pulled the plug, Hasty bought it for what he referred to as “chump change.”
Jesse and Suitcase walked through the showroom and knocked on the door to Hasty's office, which was open.
“It's open,” Hasty said.
They entered the office. Hasty looked up at them.
“Am I being arrested,” he said.
“I want to buy a couple of used Hondas,” Jesse said, as he and Suitcase sat down.
“Hondas,” Hasty said. “Forget Hondas. Let me set you up with an outstanding pair of Lincolns.”
“Forget the sales pitch, Hasty,” Jesse said. “Hondas. Vintage 2005, give or take. Two of 'em.”
“What do you want with two Hondas,” Hasty said. “Is this related to those car thefts?”
“None of your business,” Jesse said. “Do you have the Hondas, or do I have to go to O'Brien's?”
“Is he always this personable,” Hasty said to Suitcase.
Suitcase smiled.
“I don't have them in stock,” Hasty said. “Give me a day or two. I'll get them. Who's paying, by the way?”
“Board of selectmen,” Jesse said.
“I knew it was related to the car thefts.”
“How much,” Jesse said.
“Well,” Hasty said, “seeing as how I have to import them, they're not gonna be cheap.”
“Come on, Suit,” Jesse said, as he stood up. “We're going to O'Brien's.”
“Okay, okay,” Hasty said. “Sit down. Sit down. I'll discount them.”
“Hasty, these cars are for official business. I'm not here to play footsie with you over the price. I'll buy them from you only if you'll undersell the market,” Jesse said. “And the transaction needs to remain confidential. No blabbing.”
“Blabbing. You think I'd blab about this,” Hasty said.
“All over town.”
“You disappoint me, Jesse.”
“Cut the crap, Hasty. Just get the two cars. You have until noon tomorrow. The bill goes directly to Carter Hansen.”
Jesse and Suitcase started to leave.
“I wish I could say it was a pleasure doing business with you,” Hasty said.
“Noon,” Jesse said.
10
T
he big Greyhound bus pulled off the highway and into the Sun West Service Center just outside Topeka, Kansas.
The driver brought it to a stop in front of the Trail's End Restaurant & Gift Shoppe and announced to the passengers that the rest period would last for ninety minutes.
Rollo Nurse climbed out of his seat at the rear of the bus, wrestled his shoulder bag from the overhead, and stepped outside.
He stretched and took a deep breath. The air was tangy with the odor of gasoline.
Rollo was tall. He stood six feet two but weighed barely a hundred and seventy-five pounds. He was a most unsightly man. The left side of his face drooped dramatically. His eyes were unbalanced, his mouth lopsided. He oozed unpleasantness.
He sat alone in the Trail's End Restaurant, eating a chickenfried steak and muttering to himself under his breath.
He was thinking about the big cop from L.A. Rollo knew he had been wrong to challenge the cop by feigning ignorance of the crime. He knew he should have followed his instructions, but he hadn't. The cop reeked of booze, which had unsettled him.
The cop had hit him with his gun. Twice. In the head. He had attempted to surrender, only to be hit again.
He had gone down hard. He was dazed. His head had hurt terribly. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the big cop standing over him, staring at him, dead-eyed.
He was put in a cell. Alone. Isolated. Over time, the pain receded. But now he had trouble remembering things. He had become vague and uncertain. He was damaged. The cop didn't have to hit him like that. Didn't have to hurt him so bad.
He was visited by dark voices that came in the night. They whispered rage. They filled his head with images of vengeance.
Then California's economy collapsed and he was suddenly free. With no parole restrictions.
Free to go where he wished. Free to do what he wished. Free to heed the dark voices.
The PA system in the restaurant blared the announcement that the Greyhound bus to Boston was now boarding.
Rollo was first in line.
11
W
hen Jesse and Suitcase returned to the station, they found Alexis Richardson sitting in the waiting area, reading a copy of Malcolm Gladwell's
Outliers: The Story of Success.
She was wearing a colorful Missoni sweater over dark-rinse blue jeans. Her jet-black hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon. She wore a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses. When she noticed Jesse, she looked up at him and smiled.