about everyone else in the
damned world, that you got a serial killer operating here.”
“I do.”
“You must be stretched pretty thin.”
“We are.”
“But you had time to run this down.”
Jesse nodded. He could feel the force of Rita’s sexuality. All
her movements, every gesture of her head, every verbal tone, was carnal. He knew it was real, and he knew she used that.
“These kids do it?” Rita said.
“Absolutely,” Jesse said.
“No reasonable doubt?”
“None,” Jesse said.
“Well,” Rita said. “Maybe I can
create one.”
“Hope not,” Jesse said.
Rita stood and smoothed her skirt down over her thighs.
“I just like to get a feel for the case,”
she said. “Healy told
us you were a, what did he say? It was kind of cute. Oh, he said you were a straight shooter.”
“That is cute,” Jesse said.
Rita smiled and put on a coat with a big fur-trimmed hood, which
she put up carefully over her hair.
“I hope we can talk again,” she said.
“You know where to find me,” Jesse said.
Rita looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.
“Do you want me to find you?” she said.
“I believe I do,” Jesse said.
41
Healy pushed his way past the cluster of reporters outside the Paradise Police Station. One of the print reporters recognized him.
“Captain Healy,” he said. “Is
there a break in the sniper
case?”
Microphones were pressed upon him. Television cameras came suddenly to life.
“Have the state police taken over the case? Are you planning to
offer a reward … Is there forensic evidence … Why are
you here … Do you think the Paradise police are competent to handle a case of this magnitude … Is the FBI involved
…
Is there a chance they will be … Do you have a theory of the case … Are you comfortable working with Chief Stone
…?”
Healy ignored it as if it were not there. He went in through the
front door and closed it behind him. He said hello to Molly and went past her to Jesse’s office.
“There are a hundred and twenty-three thousand people in this
great Commonwealth,” Healy said, “who have bought a twenty-two
weapon, or twenty-two ammunition in the past year.”
He sat down.
“Their days are numbered,” Jesse said.
“Or his, or hers,” Healy said.
“I think it’s two people,” Jesse
said.
Healy was quiet for a moment, thinking about it.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do
too.”
“How many of those hundred and twenty-three thousand live in
Paradise?”
“One hundred and eighty-two,” Healy said.
“And how many of them own a late-model red Saab ninety-five?”
“Three.”
Jesse felt his solar plexus tighten.
“And,” he said, “how many of
those three Saabs were parked up at
the Paradise Mall when Barbara Carey got shot.”
“According to the plate numbers your people collected,” Healy
said, “one.”
Jesse felt himself coil tighter.
“And the lucky winner is?” he said.
“Anthony Lincoln,” Healy said.
He put a note card on the desk.
“Name, address, phone,” Healy said.
“He has no criminal
record.”
Jesse picked up the card and looked at it.
“He has a class-A carry permit,” Healy said. “In the past year
he has purchased a Marlin twenty-two rifle, model nine-nine-five, semiauto with a seven-round magazine, and two boxes of twenty-two long ammunition.”
“The son of a bitch,” Jesse said.
“Be useful if we could tie the rifle to the shootings,” Healey
said.
“Funny gun for the kind of shooting we’ve been seeing,” Jesse
said. “I’d have said handgun.”
“People use the guns they can get,” Healy said.
“Think we got enough to confiscate it?”
“No. All you got is he owns a twenty-two and his car was parked
“And it’s a Saab,” Jesse said.
“Like the one at the church
parking lot.”
Healy shrugged.
“Talk to the ADA on the case,” Healy said.
“Maybe he’s tight
with a judge.”
“Even if we can’t compel him,”
Jesse said. “Any good citizen
would be willing to submit his gun for forensics testing, unless he had something to hide.”
Healy smiled.
“Unless he wished to vigorously resist the intrusion of
government on the individual’s right to privacy,”
he
said.
“Unless that,” Jesse said. “I
guess I’ll go and visit
him.”
“You might want to be a little careful with this guy,” Healy
said. “If he’s your man he’s already killed four
people.”
“I’m a little careful with
everyone.”
“The hell you are,” Healy said.
“The last one killed, the Taylor
woman, didn’t you used to go out with her?”
“I did.”
“It will not be good,” Healy said,
“if you take it too personal
and turn into Rambo on us.”
“It’s the trick of being a good cop, isn’t it,” Jesse said. “You
got to care about the victim, and you got to care about the job.”
Healy nodded.
“And you got to be unemotional at the same time.”
“ ‘Course not everyone is a good
cop,” Healy
said.
Jesse was silent for a moment, looking at the top of his desk.
Then he raised his head and looked at Healy.
“I am,” Jesse said.
“Good point,” Healy said.
42
Anthony Lincoln’s address was a condo that had been rehabbed out
of an old resort hotel on the south side of Paradise, where it faced the open ocean. With Jesse in the front seat beside him, Suitcase Simpson parked the cruiser in a guest parking space off the cobblestone turnaround to the right of the entrance. A discreet sign said ONE HOUR PARKING. VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED.
“That’s welcoming,” Jesse said.
The building was an overpowering display of weathered shingle architecture, punctuated with brick and brass and copper that was greening beautifully. A dark green sign, larger than it needed to be, said SEASCAPE, in gold-colored scroll.
Simpson was in
uniform. Jesse wore a leather jacket, jeans, and sneakers.
The lobby was two stories high. The floor was a gray marble.
The
moldings and door casings were driftwood, or something that had been processed to look like driftwood. A concierge desk stretched along one side of the lobby, and a bank of elevators faced them.
The third wall of the lobby was glass, overlooking the beach and the ocean. Jesse held his badge out for the concierge to see. She looked at it carefully.
“Are you the chief?” she said.
“I am,” he said. “Jesse Stone.
This is Officer, ah, Luther
Simpson.”
“What can
I do for you?” the concierge said
carefully.
Hers was a job that could be lost by one indiscretion.
“Anthony Lincoln live here?” Jesse said.
“Yes sir, the penthouse unit.”
“Anyone live here with him?”
The concierge was pale-skinned. Her dark hair was up. She was dressed in a dark skirt-and-blazer outfit with a small yachting crest on the blazer. She thought about the question.
“Well, Mrs. Lincoln, of course.”
“And her first name is?” Jesse said.
“Ah.” The concierge tapped the computer built into her desktop.
“Brianna, Brianna Lincoln.”
“Thank you,” Jesse said.
“We’ll go up.”
“I can call up for you, sir.”
“No need,” Jesse said as he and Simpson walked to the
elevators.
When they got to the penthouse floor, the elevator opened into a
small foyer furnished with a tan leather wing chair and a Chinese red-lacquered end table. Anthony and Brianna Lincoln were waiting for them at their door.
“Chief Stone?” Anthony said.
“The concierge called ahead.”
“I’m
Jesse Stone,” Jesse said. “This is Luther Simpson, may we come
in?”
“Of course,” Anthony said. “Tony
Lincoln, this is my wife,
Brianna.”
The room was spectacular, Jesse thought. Glassed in on three sides, it overlooked the beach, the ocean, and the stretch of hard coast, where expensive houses had been built among the rocks. There was a vast white rug, blond furniture, and cream-colored full-length drapes that looked as if one could close them if one tired of the view. Everything matches, Jesse thought.
Everything is clean and exact and just right, and it looks like
nobody lives here. Simpson looked around uneasily.
“We’ll need to talk,” Jesse
said. “This all right?”
“Of course,”
Brianna said. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Sure,” Jesse said.
“Cream and sugar. Suit?” Simpson shook his head. He was still
standing. “No coffee for me,” he said. Brianna smiled and went to
the kitchen. “Why don’t you sit there, Suit,” Jesse said, “by the
door.” Tony Lincoln was slim and tall. His hair was combed back in
a neat wave, parted on the left side, and so blond that it was almost white. He had a deep tan which, Jesse thought, meant either winter vacation or tanning lamp. It balanced well with his pale hair. His eyes were very blue and his movements were alert and graceful.
“What did you call him?” Anthony said.
Brianna returned from the kitchen.
“Coffee is brewing,” she said.
Jesse nodded and smiled at her. Then he answered Tony’s
question.
“Suit,” Jesse said. “Short for
Suitcase.”
“Harry ‘Suitcase’
Simpson,” Anthony said. “The baseball player.”
“Exactly,” Jesse said.
Tony not only knew baseball, Jesse thought, he’d remembered
Suit’s last name.
“Tony remembers every baseball player that ever lived,” Brianna
said. “And most other things, too.”
Brianna was as slim as her husband and nearly as tall, with thick black hair worn short. She was as tan as Anthony, and carefully made up. Her mouth was wide and her dark eyes were very big. She was barefooted in faded jeans and a scoop-necked white T-shirt. Her husband was wearing gray suede loafers with no socks, satin sweatpants, and a V-necked black cashmere sweater. The sleeves of the sweater were pushed up over his forearms. He smiled.
“Great game,” he said.
“It is,” Jesse said.
“Ever play?” Tony said.
“I did,” Jesse said.
“I did too,” Lincoln said. “And
I’ve never liked anything so
well again.”
“Well, excuse me,” Brianna said.
Tony smiled.
“Except you,” he said.
“You’re just saying that because you want coffee,” Brianna said,
and got up and went again to the kitchen.
Tony laughed before he turned to Jesse.
“So what can we do for you, Jesse? Okay if I call you
Jesse?”
“You bet,” Jesse said.
“Let’s wait until Mrs. Lincoln comes back.”
“Brianna,” Tony said. “Tony and
Brianna. We don’t stand on a lot
of formality here.”
Jesse nodded. He smiled to himself. Suit looked very large and uncomfortable in the fancy chair by the door. Brianna came back in with coffee on a small tea wagon. Good china. Good silver.
When they had settled back with their coffee, Jesse said,
“First, thanks for being so gracious. This is a routine investigation, we’ve cross-referenced a lot of data and now we just
have to boil it down by eliminating the people we’ve come up with.”
“Is it the killings?” Brianna said.
Even sitting across from her he could smell her perfume.
And heat, Jesse thought. I can
almost feel heat
from her.
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” Jesse said.
Jesse could see Suit, by the door out of sight of the Lincolns,
staring at Jesse.
“We’re trying to run down every
twenty-two-caliber firearm owned
by a resident of Paradise.”
“Ah,” Tony said and smiled.
“That’s it.”
Jesse nodded. He took a small notebook out of his jacket pocket
and opened it.
“You appear to own a twenty-two rifle,” he said, reading from
the notebook, “Marlin model nine-nine-five, semiauto with a seven-round magazine.”
“We do,” Tony said, and grinned at Jesse,
“if you know that, you
probably know that we have a permit.”
“I do,” Jesse said. “You also
bought two boxes of twenty-two
long ammunition for it.”
“Yep, got about a box and a half left. We got a country place in
the Berkshires and when we’re out there we like to plink vermin.”
Jesse nodded.
“Do you have the gun here, Tony?” he said.
“Sure, we keep it locked up in the bedroom closet.”
“May we see it?”
“Sure, Brianna? You want to get it for us?”
“Of course,” she said and hurried out of the
room.
Jesse admired her backside, then shifted his glance to the big picture window. The ocean looked silvery blue today with the sun shining on it.
“Great view, isn’t it,” Tony
said.
“I assume you pay for it,” Jesse said.
“Oh, boy,” Tony said, “you got
that right.”
“What do you do for work,” Jesse said.
Tony smiled.
“Mostly, these days, I manage our money,”
he said. “I used to be
an ophthalmologist. Then one day I invented an ocular scanning device that became the standard for the profession.”
He smiled again.
“Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good,” he
said.
“And you don’t practice medicine
anymore?” Jesse
said.
“Why, do you have something in your eye?”
Jesse smiled.
“Just wondered.”
“No, I don’t practice anymore,”
Tony said.
“You miss it?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
Brianna came back into the room carrying the rifle in both hands. Jesse was aware that Simpson shifted a little in his seat by the door. Brianna gave Jesse the gun. He pointed it at the floor, released the magazine into his hand and put it on the table beside him, worked the action a couple of times, then opened the bolt and looked at the barrel.
“Nice and clean,” he said.
“Good workman takes care of his tools, right, Jesse?”
Jesse nodded.
“We’d like to borrow this for a couple of days. I’ll give you a
receipt, and test-fire it so we can cross you off the list.”
“Be pretty suspicious,” Tony said,
“if we didn’t let
you.”
“It would,” Jesse said.
“Could they make a mistake?” Tony said.
“No,” Jesse said. “This is
pretty straightforward
ballistics.”
“Okay with me,” Tony said. “You
go along with that,
Brianna?”
“Certainly.”
Jesse stood and handed the rifle to Simpson.
“Thanks,” Jesse said.
“We’ll get it back to you
promptly.”
“That’ll be fine, Jesse,” Tony
said.
He and Brianna were both on their feet.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Jesse said.
“We enjoyed the company,” Brianna said.
“Good luck with the
dreadful murders.”
“Yes,” Tony said. “And if you
come up with a case of
conjunctivitis, give me a call. You too, Suitcase.”
They shook hands and Tony walked them to the elevator.
“I hope you get the sonovabitch,” he said.
“Sooner or later,” Jesse said.
The elevator door opened, Jesse and Suit got in. Jesse punched one and the door glided shut.
43
As they drove back along Atlantic Avenue, Suitcase Simpson said
to Jesse, “We are cops, are we not?”
“We are.”
“And there’s a donut shop down here on the right past the
Catholic church, is there not?”
“And you feel that in order to certify our cop-ness we have to
go in there and scarf some down?”
“Yes,” Simpson said. “I
do.”
“You’re right,” Jesse said.
“It’s been too long.”
Suit swung the car into the Dunkin‘ Donuts parking lot. Simpson
kept the car idling, while Jesse got out and went in and bought a dozen donuts and two large coffees.