Authors: Robert B. Parker
Jesse stood and walked to the door.
“Be sure Steve brings in the confiscated magazines,” he said.
21
J
esse was on the small balcony off the living room, drinking club soda, with his shirt off, when Jenn came home. It was hot, but the air off the harbor was cool and as the sun went down it got cooler. When they had been married and worked in Los Angeles, Jesse and Jenn had lived in one of those old bungalows in Hollywood, with an overhanging roof and a big front porch. Jesse used to like to sit out on the front steps of the porch in his undershirt and drink beer and feel the air.
She kissed him gently when she came in.
“I’ll join you,” she said. “Thank God it’s evening.”
She went to the kitchen and got some white wine and brought it with her to the balcony and sat in the other chair.
It was late enough to be dark. Jenn sipped her wine. Many of the boats in the harbor showed lights, particularly the big yachts farther out. The black water moved quietly below them. In daylight there was usually some trash floating on it. In the darkness it was unmarred. Barely visible, its presence announced mostly by its dark movement.
“Domestic,” Jenn said after a time.
“That’s us,” Jesse said.
“I mean it,” Jenn said, “as a good thing.”
“I know,” Jesse said.
“Just sitting together,” Jenn said. “At the end of the day.”
“Maybe I should buy a couple of rocking chairs,” Jesse said.
“And a shawl,” Jenn said.
Jesse looked at his glass.
“Nothing like a bracing club soda,” he said, “at moments like this.”
“You still miss it,” Jenn said.
“Every day.”
“Is it a physical craving?”
“No, never quite has been a craving,” Jesse said. “It’s just, I like it and I miss it.”
Jenn smiled.
“Like me,” she said.
“No,” Jesse said. “You’re a craving.”
They were quiet for a time. There was a dim sound of music from among the moored boats in near shore. Across the harbor, they could see the running lights of a powerboat moving silently along the inner shoreline of the Neck.
“Glad I’m ahead of Johnny Walker,” Jenn said after a time.
Jenn drank the rest of her wine and went to pour a second glass. Jesse drank some soda, and put his feet on the balcony railing. He crossed his ankles. The running lights of the powerboat turned silently and began to trace the causeway at the south end of the harbor. Jenn came back.
“You know,” Jesse said. “Craving is pretty much all about the craver and nothing about the cravee.”
“No shit,” Jenn said.
Jenn had kicked off her shoes. She put her feet up on the balcony next to his. It made her skirt slide up her thighs. Jesse felt the surge of desire.
What was that about?
He’d seen her naked a thousand times. He’d had sex with her a thousand times. Why did he feel this way because her skirt slid up her thighs? He’d always assumed such feelings were the result of normal masculine humanity.
“I’m leering at your thighs,” Jesse said.
“Good.”
“You want to be desired, you dress sexy, you look sexy, you want to be seen as sexy. We both know that.”
“And we both know you are making something out of nothing, Looney Tunes,” Jenn said. “You’re supposed to get riled up looking at my thighs, for crissake. You’re supposed to leer.”
“Looney Tunes,” Jesse said.
“It’s like we don’t have problems anymore,” Jenn said. “And you’re trying to invent some.”
Jesse wished he had a drink. He shrugged.
“Anyway,” Jesse said. “It was a loving leer.”
22
M
olly came into Jesse’s office and stood in front of his desk.
“I called the registrar at Emory,” she said. “The Plum sisters haven’t been students there since first semester last year.”
“I assume they didn’t graduate.”
“No, they left school after first semester of their junior year.”
“Did they say why?”
“They didn’t say anything. They just ceased to be there.” Molly smiled.
“They didn’t get the boot or anything?”
“No. Just stopped going.”
“Take all their belongings?” Jesse said.
“I don’t know. I can check back.”
“Please,” Jesse said.
Molly went out. Jesse picked up his phone and called Kelly Cruz in Fort Lauderdale.
“Know anything new about the Plum sisters?” Jesse said.
“Models of decorous southern behavior,” Kelly Cruz said.
“Decorous?”
“I’m taking a night course,” Kelly Cruz said, “at the community college. So far that’s what I’ve learned.”
“Who says they’re, ah, decorous?” Jesse said.
“Mom and Dad.”
“You check with anyone else?”
“Not yet,” Kelly Cruz said. “I told you, this isn’t the big one on my caseload, you know? This is yours.”
“And here’s what I know,” Jesse said. “The Plum girls haven’t been in Europe looking at art. They’ve been in Sag Harbor, Long Island, partying. And they dropped out of Emory last fall.”
“But did they do it decorously?” Kelly Cruz said.
“I think we need to know more.”
“Wonder what else the parents don’t know?” Kelly Cruz said.
“Or do know and aren’t saying. What do you know about the three yachts registered in Fort Lauderdale?”
“Thomas Ralston, Allan Pinkton, Harold Berger,” Kelly Cruz said.
“Wow,” Jesse said.
“Thank you,” Kelly Cruz said. “Berger is up there with his wife and three children. Pinkton has his grown daughters and their husbands aboard, along with their combined four children, and his wife.”
“How about Ralston.”
“Owns the
Sea Cloud,
” Kelly Cruz said. “He’s single, up there with some guests.”
“Find anything on Harrison Darnell?”
“Family money,” she said. “Been rich for a couple generations. Real estate development. Never married. Playboy reputation. No record.”
“Never married,” Jesse said.
“Everyone concurs that he’s straight, and actively so.”
“Hence the playboy rep,” Jesse said.
“Hence,” Kelly Cruz said.
“How about Darnell? Any connection between him and Ralston?”
“They’re about the same age,” Kelly Cruz said. “Single playboys who live in South Florida and own yachts which they sailed up to Paradise for Race Week. They could easily know each other.”
“Or not,” Jesse said.
“Or not,” Kelly Cruz said. “I’ll look into it.”
“How about the ex-husbands?”
“Aside from Horvath? Can’t find one of them. He’s not in the area, wherever he is. The other one is convinced she was a nymphomaniac.”
“I don’t think we use that term anymore, do we?” Jesse said.
“This guy does, with an accent. He’s an Argentine polo player.”
“When were they married?”
“Nineteen ninety-four, ninety-five,” Kelly Cruz said.
“Divorced?”
“Nineteen ninety-five,” Kelly Cruz said. “Sex life was hurting his game.”
“Tired all the time?”
“That’s what he says.”
“He get a nice settlement?” Jesse asked.
“Yes.”
“You know where he’s been the last couple of months?”
“Playing polo. Every day. In Miami. I checked the papers. He was there.”
“There’s polo writeups in the papers down there?”
“You know what papers to look in,” Kelly Cruz said.
“Okay. So he’s not a prime suspect.”
“Too bad, I was hoping I’d need to interview him more.”
“Didn’t you say you had kids?”
“I did, but no husband.”
“And rich polo players make notoriously good fathers,” Jesse said.
“Notoriously,” Kelly Cruz said.
“What you need to do,” Jesse said, “is see if there’s a connection between Ralston and Darnell. And I think you need to pressure the parents. There’s too much going on that we don’t understand.”
“No more Miss Nice Girl?” Kelly Cruz said.
“Exactly.”
“Okay, I need to do that,” Kelly Cruz said. “What do you need?”
“I need to get a look at their boats,” Jesse said.
23
Y
ou go on the boat without a warrant,” Molly said, “nothing you find can be used as evidence.”
“I don’t have enough for a warrant.”
“Not even Judge Gaffney?” Molly said.
Jesse shook his head.
“Marty Reagan says the new DA is very careful.”
“So he won’t even ask,” Molly said.
“Right.”
“So what’s the point of going aboard?”
“Better to know than not know.”
“Even if you can’t use it.”
“Can’t use it in court,” Jesse said. “But maybe it’ll point me toward something I can use.”
“Be good to know if they’re viable suspects,” Molly said.
“It would,” Jesse said.
“Be good to know if they weren’t viable suspects,” Molly said.
“Also true,” Jesse said.
“So you could start looking someplace else.”
“Um-hm.”
“Of course, it’s illegal,” Molly said.
“Nobody’s perfect,” Jesse said.
Molly nodded slowly.
“You cut some corners, Jesse.”
“Sometimes you have to, if you’re going to do the job right.”
“So you do something wrong to do something right?”
“Sometimes,” Jesse said.
“I’m not sure Sister Mary Agnes would agree,” Molly said.
“Sister Mary Agnes a cop?” Jesse said.
Molly smiled.
“She taught Philosophy of Christian Ethics at Our Lady of the Annunciation Academy.”
“Certainties are harder to come by,” Jesse said, “in police work.”
“But there’s a danger, isn’t there,” Molly said, “that you start cutting corners and you end up doing bad, not good?”
“Yes, there is,” Jesse said.
“Do you worry about that?”
“Yes,” Jesse said, “I do.”
“But you’ll do it anyway.”
“Sometimes,” Jesse said. “I trust myself to keep it clean.”
“Pride goeth before a fall is what Sister Mary Agnes would say.”
“Sometimes,” Jesse said, “it goeth before an indictment.”
Molly smiled at him.
“I guess, if I’m going to have somebody bending the law on me,” she said, “I’d just as soon it be you.”
“Better than Mary Agnes?”
“Sister dealt mostly in theory,” Molly said.
“Like when they do marriage counseling,” Jesse said.
“Do I hear anti-Catholicism?”
“No,” Jesse said, “anti-theory-ism.”
Molly smiled again. “You better hide your tracks,” she said, “in case you do get them in court. You don’t one of those fruit from the poisoned tree things.”
“You’re still taking those law courses,” Jesse said. “Aren’t you.”
“One a semester,” Molly said.
“Different than Philosophy of Christian Ethics?”
“Just as theoretical,” Molly said.
“But more commonly applied,” Jesse said.
“By people like us,” Molly said.
“You’ll be DA someday.”
“I was thinking more about president,” Molly said. “How are you planning to search the boat without getting caught.”
“Everybody,” Jesse said, “goes to the Stiles Island Clambake.”
“Second Saturday in Race Week,” Molly said.
“Which is tomorrow,” Jesse said.
“Midpoint of Race Week,” Molly said.
“Was Race Week ever just a week?”
“I think so,” Molly said, “but sometime back when my mother was in high school it started expanding at both ends. The small boats the first two weeks, the big yacht races the second two. With the clambake in the middle.”
“But they still call it Race Week,” Jesse said.
“Race Month just doesn’t sound right,” Molly said.
“But it is the social occasion. Everybody goes.”
“Except me, this year,” Molly said. “I’m right here three to eleven. Applying legal theory.”
“And I’ll be out in the harbor,” Jesse said, “committing piracy.”
“Shiver me timbers,” Molly said.
24
T
he caterer’s clambake crew started Friday afternoon, digging a hole two feet deep and fifteen feet across. They lined it with rocks, built a bonfire on top of the rocks and let it burn, feeding it through the night with hardwood. In the morning, when the fire had burned down, they spread seaweed over the rocks and then began layering in clams, lobsters, corn on the cob, potatoes and thick Portuguese sausages. They repeated the seaweed and the food layers until the pit was full. Then they put on a final layer of seaweed, and stretched a tarpaulin over the pile while the hot stones made the seaweed steam, and the food cooked.
Another crew set up a vast striped tent with a pole peak at either end, from which flew Paradise Yacht Club banners. A full bar set up underneath it, and beer kegs chilled in huge tubs of ice. By two-thirty in the afternoon the island was already crowded. People came from the harbor in their own small boats, or were ferried by the Paradise Yacht Club launch. People from town drove over the causeway and parked where they could. A four-man police detail would try to manage the traffic, and later, the clambakers.
Jesse stood beside Hardy Watkins, resting his elbows on the low cabin of the harbor boat, as it idled near the outer harbor. Through the binoculars, Stiles Island was a swarm of tan legs, white shorts, tank tops, big hats, long dresses, pink cotton, blue ribbon, floral patterns, yellow linen. The smell of the bake drifted to him, edged with the smell of fresh spilled beer.
Jesse moved the glasses back to the
Lady Jane,
where a woman came over the side and joined others in the small launch. It might have been Blondie Martin. The launch pulled away from the
Lady Jane
and ran in a big smooth curve toward the Stiles Island dock.
“That’s nine,” Jesse said. “The boat should be empty.”
“You want to come in from the other side,” Hardy said.
“Yes.”
Hardy opened the throttle gently and the harbor boat moved quietly through the small harbor chop, behind the screen of moored yachts, to the far side of the
Lady Jane.
He throttled back and let the boat drift in against the side of the yacht, and held it there.