Robert B. Parker's Debt to Pay (12 page)

A
s Jesse drove along the Concord Turnpike, his thoughts drifted back to earlier in the day. He didn't know how to feel about what had gone down in New York. He'd had to tell Hale Hunsicker. The man had a right to know Jenn was in danger. And if Jesse wanted to protect Jenn, he needed Hunsicker's help. But now he wasn't so sure he'd made the right move. Jesse didn't usually second-guess his decisions, but this wasn't usually. By his telling Hunsicker, things had suddenly gotten exponentially more complicated. He had ceded that much more control of the situation, whatever little real control he had of it to begin with. Jesse remembered something he'd heard a long time ago. So long ago that he'd forgotten who'd said it, yet the words stuck in his head.
There's no such thing as a secret when more than one person knows it.

Telling Hunsicker wasn't like telling most people. People with money are trouble because money gives people power and a sense of entitlement. They also think having money means they're smarter than everyone else in the room, that they always know better even when there's no evidence to support that belief. And most people can't afford or don't need a head of security. As unsure as he was
about giving Hunsicker a heads-up, he was even less sure of Kahan. Jesse disdained arrogance. Arrogance was the emotional equivalent of wealth. It gave you a false sense of superiority, a sense of invincibility. Jesse had seen it as a ballplayer. He played with guys who thought great talent made them invulnerable, but as Kahan himself had said, no one was invulnerable. He didn't need Kahan to tell him that. The aching in his wrecked right shoulder reminded him of that lesson every day of his life.

For all of his worries about loss of control, Jesse was now about to cede more of it by letting someone else in on the secret. He clicked his turn signal and pulled into the bowling alley's lot. There were only a few other cars in the lot, but the one he was looking for was there. Like its owner, it was expensively appointed, perfectly detailed, and painted a vaguely threatening flat black. Getting out of his Explorer, Jesse noticed it was cooler here than it had been in New York. Then he turned and went inside.

Bowling alleys were mournful when they were silent, but he wasn't here to bowl or play candlepin. He was here to see Vinnie Morris. Jesse had needed to get Healy on board and to alert Hunsicker before telling Vinnie. Strangely, it was Morris he trusted most of all not to do anything to screw things up. Vinnie was a lot of things. A cool customer above all else, not a man given to acting on his first impulse. Unlike those of Healy, Hunsicker, or Kahan, Morris's loyalties weren't divided. He was deadly, a shark, but a thinking man's shark.

Jesse stopped at the counter and asked for Morris. The fat guy behind the counter was wearing a Red Sox jersey that fit him a few lifetimes ago. The top of his head featured lots of skin and a few lonely gray hairs. He was too busy reading the
Globe
to look up from the paper.

“Fresh outta Vinnies here,” the fat man said, looking up, his eyelids as droopy as his belly. “You want bowling shoes? We got plenty of them. Vinnies we ain't got.”

Jesse wasn't in the mood and stuck his shield in front of the guy's face.

He was unimpressed. “Paradise, huh? Where's that at? I been searching for it my whole stinkin' life.”

“Get on the phone and tell Vinnie Morris Jesse Stone is here to see him. And don't say there's no Vinnie here.”

“There's no Vinnie here.”

Jesse grabbed a handful of the fat man's jersey and yanked his head down onto the counter so that his fleshy left cheek spread out across the sports pages.

“Last chance,” Jesse said.

“Stone, Stone, take it easy,” Vinnie Morris called out from behind him. “The man's only doing his job.”

Jesse let the man go and smoothed out the top of his Sox jersey. “Sorry.”

Fat man shrugged and made a face, jerking up one corner of his mouth. He went back to the paper.

“What is it, Stone?” Morris asked.

“Can we talk . . . alone?” Jesse said, pointing at the two big men flanking Morris.

Morris jerked his head and his bookends stepped back.

“This way,” he said to Jesse, pointing toward the game room.

The game room was fairly dark but for all the colored lights on the row of unused pinball machines. Every few seconds one of the pinball machines would flash, bells would ring. Vinnie stopped by the air-hockey table, wiped an area along one of its rails with a handkerchief, and then sat back against the table.

“So, you got my attention, Stone.”

“You were right about Gino, but you were wrong, too.”

“I already have enough headaches and I don't like riddles.”

“Gino didn't kill the boy, but he did kill himself.”

Vinnie shook his head. “Then it don't figure.”

“It does if Gino was saving himself from a long and painful death.”

“Like I said, Stone, I don't like riddles.”

“It was Peepers.”

“Fuck.” Vinnie Morris didn't usually show emotion, and Jesse had never seen Morris afraid. Not until that moment. “You sure?”

Jesse nodded.

“I told Gino not to do that thing for you. So, what are you going to do to make it right?”

“That's why I'm here, Vinnie,” Jesse said, “to try and make it right.”

I
t was past one a.m. when he reentered the corrugated steel building in West Dallas. He was carrying a copy of
The Dallas Morning News
under his left arm and a large coffee in his right hand. After closing the door behind him, he stood very still, listening for signs of life from the rude blonde. Not that he had done much to her beyond toying with her head. Hell, he'd even reset her dislocated shoulder and bathed her a few times. He'd fed her, too. In her way, she was very lucky. Under nearly any other set of circumstances, she would be begging him to kill her to stop the pain. But no, he had other plans for her. Big plans.

Hearing nothing but the buzz of traffic from the highway, he put the coffee and the paper down. He stripped out of his sweat-dampened waiter clothing: clip-on bow tie, the white tuxedo shirt, black polyester pants, black socks, and ugly gum-soled black shoes. Perfect camouflage for an invisible man doing an invisible job. He sniffed the shirt and gagged. It stank of sautéed shrimp in sriracha sauce. He hated seafood, shrimp most of all, and the Asian pepper sauce had burned his eyes. Yet he had had to stand at the shrimp station for three hours in the main hall of the Perot Museum as wealthy Texans
got progressively drunker, sloppier, and more inane. He wondered who had first said that thing about there being no dumb questions. Whoever said it, he thought, had never worked in catering.

At least eleven times during the evening, party guests had approached him and asked if those were shrimp he was serving. Eleven. Exactly eleven. He had counted. And each time it was all he could do not to scream at them, “What else do you think they are, wood grubs with tails?” People were such fools, but he'd just smiled his smile at them, placing a tablespoon of oil, twelve shrimp, and a ladle of the red pepper sauce in the hot pan. His shoulder ached from having to deal with that heavy pan, but he did enjoy watching the heat turn the shrimp's sickly gray flesh white and pink. He liked what fire did to flesh.

He thought about sponge-bathing himself, but realized that he had work to do. He had to start working on Jenn's wedding gift. After that, he would clean himself up and get some rest. He had another job for a different catering company later that afternoon. At least he wouldn't have to wear the same outfit. The other catering company was all about casual. Golf shirt, jeans, and running shoes were all they required. And mercifully, they didn't usually do shrimp.
Mercifully.
He laughed at himself for even thinking of that word. More than knives or fire or pliers, mercy and hope were his greatest devices for the delivery of pain. Then his contemplation of pain was disturbed by the sound of the rude blonde stirring.

He picked up the paper and the coffee and went into the workshop area, where she was tied down to the bench. He flicked on the light. She turned her head to look at him and when she saw he was mostly undressed, she began screaming into her gag and pulling on her restraints. He hadn't realized, and placed the paper and coffee down.

“Shhh,” he said, stroking her hair. “I don't do that. I never do that. If I'd wanted to do that to you, I would have done it before now. It was just a long, miserable day at work and I had to get out of those clothes. I'm sorry. See, if you had only said sorry to me, you wouldn't be here.”

She had a brief crying jag. When she calmed, he showed her the paper.

“You're famous,” he said, pointing to the large photo of her adorning the front page. “This picture doesn't do you justice, though.”

Her eyes got wide at the sight of her photo and the headline about her having gone missing days ago. He laughed at her when he saw a glimmer of hope in her red-rimmed blue eyes. She had hope and, if things progressed as he planned, hers might actually not go unfulfilled. But there was a lot of work to be done before he determined her fate. First, he grabbed a chair, sipped his coffee, and opened the paper.

“Says your name is Belinda June Yankton and that you're twenty-nine. They got that much right, at least according to your driver's license. You'd be amazed at the details newspapers get wrong.”

She didn't move, didn't make a sound, for fear of angering him.

“A cheerleader at the University of North Texas. Yes, I can see that. I can only imagine how rude you were to the ugly boys and the fat girls at school.”

He felt the heat rising in him as he remembered how she'd treated him at the barbecue joint, but he needed her in spite of a suddenly acute desire to hurt her.

“Divorced already . . . from one of Dallas's leading young attorneys,” he said, going back to the paper. “I can see that, too. It would account for your fancy address and that car of yours. I bet your ex's rooting against you. Bet you he'd like to have some time with you
trussed up this way. What do you think, Belinda June? Maybe I'll seek him out and ask him.”

She shook her head violently and the crying started all over again.

He took a long sip of coffee and folded the paper. He walked over to her and said, “I have a lot of work to do and I need quiet. Would you like to go to sleep and dream again?”

She nodded, straining to say a gag-muffled “yes.”

“First you need to drink. And remember, no talking when I remove the gag. I have need of you, but don't misbehave. I don't need you that much that I can't find a substitute.”

Ten minutes and two bottles of cold Gatorade later, Belinda June Yankton was unconscious and well on her way to some vivid dreams. Peepers was drilling a fuse hole into a length of pipe.

J
esse was looking at the L.A. Dodgers Classics calendar on the wall to the right of the window behind his desk. The photo for the month of September was of Sandy Koufax, hands above his head in the midst of his windup, Willie Mays at the plate, awaiting the pitch. Jesse paid no mind to the photo. Instead he counted the days until he and Diana had to leave for Dallas. Only two to go.

Nearly a month had passed since his meeting with Hunsicker and Kahan in New York. Labor Day had come and gone. The kids in town were back at school and life in Paradise had settled into a familiar pre-autumn rhythm. The trees were hinting at their coming turn. Daylight hours were being gently squeezed out by invading darkness and the wind that blew a tad chillier than it had the day before or the day before that. Healy had stopped by the office a few times to check on progress in the case and just to talk. Retirement was going to be hard on a lifer like Healy, but at least his wife was responding well to the treatment and medication the cardiologist had prescribed.

“How's the golf game?” Jesse asked the last time Healy had come in.

“Hopeless. Fall can't get here too soon, so I can give it up.”

Otherwise it had been a quiet month. Very quiet. Too quiet for Jesse's liking. He trusted calm up to a point, but that point had come and gone. Mostly it was the waiting that was getting to him. There'd been some news from Dallas. Kahan had found a few men fitting Peepers's general description who had worked or were working for the companies scheduled to do catering for the wedding week events. He'd had them followed at safe distances, had looked into their backgrounds. So far, they had all checked out. Jesse hoped like hell that none of Kahan's prying had tipped Peepers off to the fact that they were onto him.

“Two of these catering employees were fired or quit. One left town. Not uncommon with these types of jobs,” Kahan said. “Lots of turnover. I don't think that's how he's coming at her.”

“However he comes at her, he'll do it in front of me. That's the point. He'll want me to watch.”

“Then why come and give him the satisfaction?”

“You know the answer to that. If I don't come, no one will be safe, Jenn and your boss included, no matter how good you are at your job.”

“Are you sure he knows you're coming?”

That was a good question. Frankly, Jesse had expected to hear from Peepers by now. Where, he wondered, was the taunting letter or photo? Just as Jenn had sent him an invitation, Jesse was sure that Peepers would have sent one of his own by now. It worried Jesse that maybe Peepers was already one step ahead of them all. That Peepers somehow knew Jesse had pieced together the carnage at Gino Fish's office, the vandalism in Paradise, and the murders in Salem. Or maybe Hunsicker's head of security wasn't as slick as he believed himself to be. The fact was that Peepers had lived one step ahead of
everyone for many years. Jesse really had no way of knowing if he was right about Peepers. It was guesswork. Educated guesswork, but guesswork nonetheless.

Jesse was still staring at the calendar when his phone buzzed. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and was confused to see it was Suit calling.

“Aren't you on patrol?” Jesse asked.

“You saw me head out an hour ago.”

“Then why are you calling me on the phone.”

“I didn't want this on the radio, Jesse. I'm over on the two-hundred block of Lexington Road.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think you better get over here. Quick. There's something you need to see.”

Jesse hung up.

“Where you headed, Jesse?” Alisha asked as Jesse passed her.

He didn't answer.

Less than five minutes later, Jesse and Suit were kneeling by the flat rear tire of a 2009 Honda Civic. It was obvious to anyone who looked at the tire what had caused the flat. There was about a dime-sized hole in the sidewall of the tire, about six inches above the pavement.

“I was driving by when I noticed it. Do you think it's a coincidence, Jesse, or maybe a copycat?”

“I don't believe in coincidences.”

“I know you don't. I guess I was just hoping.”

Jesse reached across and put his hand on Suit's shoulder. “I understand. Let's get someone over here to dig the slug out. Use your cell phone. I don't want this on the police radio, in case he's using a scanner.”

“It's him, isn't it, Jesse? He's here, not in Texas.”

Jesse shrugged. “Maybe, or maybe that's what he wants us to think. He's playing with us. It's what he does.”

Suit stood up and paced while Jesse looked to see if there were any differences he could spot between this blown-out tire and the others before it. When he turned to look up at Suit, he saw the fear in the big man's face.

“Suit, c'mon, get Peter over here.”

Jesse listened carefully to Suit's voice as he spoke to Perkins. He didn't like what he heard. Suit kept clearing his throat as he spoke, almost as if he was holding back tears. The fear in his officer's eyes, the pacing about, and the strain in his voice were all bad signs. It was the thing Jesse had worried about since Suit had returned to duty after he'd been shot by Peepers. Jesse couldn't afford to give Suit time off, not with leaving for Jenn's wedding, nor could he afford to have Suit fall apart on duty.

“Suit, are you all right?” Jesse asked, standing to face him.

“Sure, Jesse.” His answer was firm, too firm.

“Everyone in your family's moved out of town, right? Your mom's down in Florida.”

Suit nodded, plunging his hand into his pocket to feel for the engagement ring he'd moved from one pair of uniform pants to the other for weeks. After the day he was called back to the station, he hadn't been able to muster up the nerve to propose. At least that's what he'd told himself, but now he knew the truth. He knew that as long as he was a target and Peepers was out there, Elena was in terrible danger. He couldn't let anything happen to her, not on his account. His hand found the ring at the bottom of his pocket.

“Suit! Suit! What's up? Are you listening to me?”

“Sorry, Jesse, yeah. You're right,” he said, running the ridges of
his fingertip along a facet of the perfect cut diamond. “My family's safe. I've only got to watch out for myself.”

“Luther, if you can't handle this, I'll understand, but you need to tell me the truth.”

Suit laughed almost involuntarily. “Luther. You never call me Luther. I'll be fine. I swear. I know how to handle this.”

Before the discussion went any further, Peter Perkins rolled up in his cruiser. Never in the history of the Paradise PD had a flat tire received the attention of the chief and two senior officers.