Fool Me Twice

23

The cocktail party honoring Marisol Hinton was just gathering steam when Jesse stopped by.

A collection of actors, assorted movie brass, and several members of the staff and crew had been invited to the small gathering that Carter Hansen was hosting at Noah’s Ark, a colorful theme park of a saloon located on the Paradise waterfront.

The locals referred to it as the “twofer bar.” Noah’s offered two drinks for the price of one; two appetizers, both soup and salad; two sides with each entrée; and a pair of desserts as well.

The staff and crew had converged at the bar, taking advantage of Hansen’s largesse. Noah’s mojitos were very much in demand, but the prop mistress had seductively convinced the bartender to concoct several pitchers of Long Island iced tea, which were disappearing fast.

The actors had taken over the buffet, treating themselves to hors d’oeuvres and wine. Noah’s shrimp boats, served two at a time, were a big favorite.

Selectmen Hansen, Comden, and Hasty Hathaway were among the celebrants. A handful of local merchants and other town luminaries were also there.

Jesse saw Frankie Greenberg standing at one of the tables, beside Marisol, who was nervously scanning the room with eyes that reflected both tension and discomfort. She seemed taken aback by being the focus of so many of those in the room, yet at the same time she appeared needful of that focus.

Marisol’s was a classic cinematic face. She had a prominent forehead, widely spaced large blue eyes, and sharply pronounced cheekbones. Hers was a ski nose, curling cutely upward at its tip. She had oversized lips and a notable jaw. Taken independently, her features seemed oddly incongruous. But seen through the lens of a camera, they coalesced perfectly, transforming her into movie-star beautiful.

Frankie waved to Jesse, who picked his way through the crowd toward her.

“This is who I was telling you about,” Frankie said to Marisol. “Jesse Stone, meet Marisol Hinton.”

Marisol turned her blue-eyed gaze to Jesse.

“So you’re the famous police chief,” she said.

“Serving and protecting.”

“Frankie said you used to be a cop in Los Angeles.”

“I was a homicide detective.”

“Homicide? You mean murder?”

“Yes.”

“A lot of that going around in Los Angeles.”

“There is.”

“Frankie said . . . I mean, I wonder . . .”

Her voice trailed off.

After an awkward pause, Jesse said, “What do you wonder?”

Marisol shifted uneasily.

“May I speak candidly, Chief Stone?”

“Jesse,” he said.

“Jesse,” she said. “May I?”

“Of course.”

“It’s about my husband.”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“My husband and I are estranged. He had become violent, and I couldn’t handle it any longer. So I changed the locks and threw him out. He still frightens me, though. I thought I’d be all right once I got here, but now I find that I’m not.”

“He isn’t here in Paradise, is he?”

“No. But I’m terrified that he might show up.”

She looked at Jesse imploringly. Either she was actually frightened or she was an exceptionally good actress. Jesse wasn’t certain which.

“He calls me a lot. At all hours. He keeps telling me how angry he is. He’s always yelling. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Why not change your number?”

“He’d still find me.”

“How about I provide you with a secure phone,” Jesse said.

Marisol looked at him.

“‘A secure phone’?”

“A special police phone.”

“And you’d give me one?”

“I’d lend you one.”

“A police phone?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as you’re here.”

“And the number would be private?”

“Yes.”

“And he couldn’t trace it.”

“Correct.”

“You’d actually do that?”

“I would.”

“That would be amazingly helpful,” she said, a smile appearing on her face. “I’d really appreciate that. I would be in your debt.”

“That wouldn’t be necessary. Hopefully it’ll help ease your fears,” he said.

Jesse looked over at Frankie, who eyed him apologetically.

“I’ll see to it,” he said.

He excused himself, shook Marisol’s hand, and as he left, he gave Frankie’s arm a barely noticeable squeeze.

She smiled.

Once outside, Jesse took a deep breath. He was about to jump into his cruiser when Suitcase joined him.

“So what’s she like,” Suitcase said.

“She’s frightened.”

“Frightened?”

“Of her husband.”

“Ryan Rooney?”

“Yes.”

“Because?”

“She says he’s become violent.”

“Yikes.”

“Exactly. I need you to do something, Suit.”

“What?”

“I need you to give her one of our encrypted cell phones.”

“Marisol Hinton?”

“Yes.”

“One of our secure phones?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t they for departmental use only?”

“Yes.”

“And you want me to give one to Marisol Hinton?”

“A loaner.”

Suitcase didn’t say anything.

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“You could get in trouble for this,” Suitcase said.

“I’ll take my chances,” Jesse said.

—

Jesse was sitting in the living room, scotch in hand, when his cell phone rang.

“What did you think,” Frankie said.

“She’s very frightened.”

“She has me worried.”

“I can understand why.”

“I’ve never seen her like this before.”

“You might want to consider providing her with some personal security.”

“We already have one of our officers assigned to her.”

“I’m not talking about movie cops. I mean genuine security. More exclusive and more arduously trained than the average cop who services a movie set.”

“Are you suggesting a bodyguard?”

“I’m suggesting a tactical security officer.”

“What’s that?”

“Someone highly skilled in the serious business of providing personal protection. A person with martial arts expertise, knowledgeable about weaponry and trained in the finer points of security.”

“You know someone like that?”

“I might.”

“Would he be expensive?”

“Yes.”

“Would the movie be responsible for paying him?”

“I wouldn’t know about that. But when I was in L.A., I knew a handful of qualified operatives whose job it was to provide protection services to top-tier movie actors. There’s always an obsessed clown or two out there who believes that it’s his or her destiny to marry some media star and who will stop at nothing to get next to that star. Think Madonna. Jennifer Aniston. David Letterman. All of them victims of deranged stalkers. It’s a whole lot more efficient to hire someone genuinely qualified to deal with these head cases than it is to leave it to some inexperienced rent-a-cop.”

“I don’t know if we can even afford it.”

“Let me see if the guy I’m thinking about is even available,” Jesse said. “Then you can worry about affording it. But I’ll bet you have a few bucks stashed away in one of your general accounts that you can surreptitiously latch on to.”

“You’re smarter than you look.”

“No one ever suffered from being underestimated,” he said.