Fool Me Twice

48

Jesse had arranged to meet Frankie’s father, Henry Greenberg, at the hospital. He was already there when Jesse arrived.

Greenberg was a handsome man who was aging well. Jesse guessed him to be in his late fifties, still fit and youthful in appearance.

“Jesse Stone,” Jesse said as he approached Mr. Greenberg.

“Hank Greenberg.”

“Like the baseball player?”

“Better him than that crook from AIG.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Greenberg.”

“Hank.”

“Hank.”

“I’ve spoken with Dr. Lafferty,” Greenberg said. “He seems optimistic.”

“That’s the feeling I get.”

“Can you tell me what exactly happened?”

Jesse explained that it was primarily a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That she hadn’t been targeted.

“I’m sure she’d be happy to know that you’re here,” Jesse said.

“Lafferty said they would be moving her into a private room so that I can sit with her.”

“That’s a good sign.”

“I hope so. She’s all I’ve got.”

Jesse gave Greenberg his card and wrote his cell-phone number on it. He promised to stop by again.

“This is very nice of you,” Greenberg said.

“I’m rooting for her,” Jesse said.

—

Did you really think you’d get away with it,” Jesse said.

He was seated on a straight-backed chair in the center aisle of the tombs, between the two rows of three cells each, in front of the one occupied by William J. Goodwin.

“Get away with what,” Goodwin said.

“Well,” Jesse said, “the crime, for starters.”

“We never thought anyone would catch on,” Goodwin said.

“You thought the rate hikes would continue to go unnoticed,” Jesse said.

“Yes,” Goodwin said.

Ida Fearnley was in the cell across from Goodwin’s, sitting on the cot, her head bowed.

Oscar LaBrea sat on a stool in the cell adjacent to Goodwin’s. His nose was heavily bandaged. The skin around his eyes was a deeply bruised blue-black, giving him the look of a demented badger.

The three of them presented a sad tableau.

“It’s not that your ideas don’t have merit,” Jesse said. “You make a compelling argument, and I’d like to believe that if you had gone about doing things legally, you might have been able to get some changes made.”

Goodwin didn’t say anything.

“Abusing the law never serves anyone’s purposes. How could you not have known that?”

Goodwin looked at the floor.

“What will happen to us,” Ida said.

“That’s for the courts to decide. I’ll be presenting your case to the district attorney this afternoon. He’ll take it from there.”

None of them spoke.

Jesse stood.

“For what it’s worth, you have my sympathies. You served the people of this town honorably for many years.”

Jesse stepped over to LaBrea’s cell. He stared in at him. LaBrea shied away.

“Do you really think you could have done it,” Jesse said.

LaBrea didn’t say anything. He was breathing through his mouth.

“You don’t have the cojones,” Jesse said.

LaBrea remained silent.

Jesse turned away from him in disgust.

There was nothing left to say.

—

It was dusk when Jesse opened the door to his house and was greeted by a complaining Mildred Memory. She hadn’t appreciated his absence and let him know it. She followed him into the kitchen, where he put his service belt and pistol on the counter and then fed her.

He poured himself a scotch.

When Mildred had finished eating, Jesse picked her up and sat down in one of the armchairs in the living room.

As a show of gratitude, she proceeded to lick his hand with her sandpaper tongue, then stretched out across his lap and rested her head on his forearm, pinning him to the chair. She purred contentedly.

Jesse sat back and thought about Frankie Greenberg and of the feelings he had developed for her, which he had not yet taken the time to analyze. She had suddenly appeared in his life, and they found themselves together. He liked her. He enjoyed spending time with her.

But he understood how new they were, and how uncertain. And how unlikely it would be for their relationship to continue once the movie was over.

What did that say to him? That he was attracted to dead-end relationships? That commitment continued to elude him by his own choice?

He thought briefly about Jenn and wondered where she was and who she was with. He had successfully rid himself of the burden of his ex-wife, yet at times like this, unsettled times, she still entered his mind.

He considered calling her, but he knew better than to invite her back into his life.

Here he was, once again adrift, his premises uncertain.

He reached around Mildred and poured himself another scotch. But he stopped himself from drinking it. He realized he was on the brink. He put the glass down.

He couldn’t bring himself to dislodge the sleeping cat from his lap, so he leaned back in his chair and struggled to make himself more comfortable.

Then he was asleep.

—

Ryan Rooney couldn’t sleep.

Finally he got out of bed and went to the darkened living room. He replayed the shootings over and over in his mind. He was happy to have administered a proper fate to Marisol. He cherished the look in her eye when she realized that it was him. She got what she deserved.

As for Frankie Greenberg, he was both astonished that he had shot her and remorseful for the deed.

It was a knee-jerk reaction, he kept telling himself. He hadn’t intended to do it. When she started toward him, he shot her in self-defense.

Maybe it was the crystal meth. Perhaps his judgment had been impaired.

To his great surprise, he was consumed by guilt. He couldn’t get it out of his mind.

He would now be forced to change his plans. He had rented the cabin for a month. He would stay there and wait it out. He would make his move when more time had elapsed and surveillance became lax.

He would stay off the highways. He would take the back roads. He would head north to Maine, where he could illegally cross the border into Quebec and disappear into the Canadian wilderness.

He reached for his paraphernalia and his Shabu rock.

He breathed the air of invincibility.

I’ll get through this, he thought.