Robert B. Parker’s Buried Secrets

Nineteen

Jesse put Peebles in the cells in the back of the station. They’d been remodeled during the pandemic, when almost no one was using them and they’d received an unexpected grant for law enforcement from the federal government. Armistead wanted Jesse to buy an army-surplus armored vehicle, but Jesse overruled him.

Instead, they modernized the holding cells. Now they had new doors, controlled by keypads, with remote entry and lockout, so a single officer could control the cells without ever entering the room. They also had slots for meal trays, so they could feed someone if they kept him overnight without opening the entire cell door. It was a big step-up from a small-town drunk tank. It looked more like Gitmo than Mayberry.

Jesse put Peebles into the nearest cell, then took his shoes and his phone, along with his wallet and his jacket.

Jesse stood outside the cell and asked him if he wanted some coffee. Peebles just stared at him.

“You want something to eat?”

The same empty look.

“You want a lawyer?”

Peebles shook his head.

“You want to tell me why you burned down Burton’s house after you asked me to check on him?”

Peebles leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees.

“Why’d you do it?” Jesse asked.

For a moment, Jesse thought Peebles was about to speak. But he just put his head in his hands. Shame and desperation came off him in waves like the fumes of gasoline still stuck to his clothing.

“See, this is what I don’t understand,” Jesse said. “Why call the police to look in on your friend if you didn’t want us to find what was there? You had to know there was a chance he was dead. You had to know we’d go inside.”

Peebles remained silent. It was the one smart thing Jesse had seen him do so far.

“My only guess is you didn’t know what we’d find. I’m willing to bet you didn’t really know anything about Phil Burton. Not really.”

Still nothing.

“I am still willing to believe you don’t have anything to do with the dead people or the money, Matthew.”

Peebles smiled sadly. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice very quiet.

“I think it does,” Jesse said. “Right now, you’re the only person we’ve got connected to the house and what was inside. You could answer some questions for us. Fill in the blanks. But if you don’t, well...”

Jesse let it hang there for a moment, left the consequences to Peebles’s imagination.

But Peebles only snorted.

“Something funny?”

“You. Trying to scare me.”

“I’m not trying to scare you, Matthew. I’m trying to help you.”

“You can’t help me.”

“Give me a chance. I’m pretty good at it sometimes.”

Peebles looked at the floor again. Then at the wall, then at the ceiling. Anywhere but at Jesse. He bounced his leg up and down, anxiety spilling out of him.

“Talk to me, Matthew. Tell me what you were doing at the house. Tell me about Phil Burton.”

“Like you said: I don’t know anything about him,” Peebles said. “Not really.”

“Then tell me who does.”

Peebles opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, and looked away.

When he looked back at Jesse, Jesse could see the moment had passed. Peebles’s face was blank again, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

“I am exercising my right to remain silent,” he said.

“Matthew. Whoever you’re scared of, we can protect you.”

Peebles snorted again. “You can’t protect me,” he said. “I’m already dead.”

“Why do you say that? Who’s going to kill you?”

“Never mind,” Peebles said. “Just leave me alone.”

Jesse shrugged. “All right,” he said. “But I want you to remember this moment, Matthew.”

Peebles glared at him. “What moment is that?”

“The one where you made the wrong choice. Again.”

As promised, Peebles remained silent. Jesse took his things and left him alone in the cell.

A million dollars is not as much cash as people think, Jesse knew. In hundreds, it would just about fill an oversized briefcase or a five-gallon paint bucket.

But in small bills — twenties, tens, even fives and ones — cash becomes considerably more bulky. Drug dealers end up with more of it than they know how to handle. You can’t just walk into a bank with a pallet of cash. Jesse didn’t know why Burton had converted so much of his worldly wealth into small denominations. Maybe it went along with the hoarding. Maybe he was just paranoid and waiting for the end of the world. Whatever his reasons, the state evidence techs had to count and document each bill — including the ones stained by body fluids and decomposition — before they packed them neatly into two giant duffels. They looked like big black bricks, weighing a little less than a hundred pounds each.

That’s why Jesse sent Suit to the state evidence facility. The former football player was big enough to handle both oversized bags, haul them into the station. But even he looked smaller carrying the duffels, his face flushed as he walked through the door and down the hall to the cells.

As Jesse watched Suit go by, he understood why Armistead and Munroe wanted the cash so bad. That amount of money could tempt anyone.

Except Suit, who carried them as if they were nothing more than bags of laundry he’d brought home for his mom to do. Suit was incorruptible.

Which was one of the other reasons Jesse had asked him to do the job.

“Any problems?” Jesse asked.

“Piece of cake,” Suit said, as he came back from the cells, wiping a little sweat from his forehead.

“Maybe a little too much cake lately, Suit.”

Suit looked wounded. “Like to see you carry that weight, old man.”

“That’s why I pay you the big bucks,” Jesse said. “Did you put the money in the cells?”

“Yup. I see you found Mr. Peebles,” Suit said. “Molly is right. That does sound like a cartoon character.”

“How is our guest? Did Mr. Peebles say anything?”

“Oh, yeah,” Suit said. “We sat down and had a good long talk about the New Wave Surrealists.”

“You have thoughts on the New Wave Surrealists?”

“No, but Elena’s reading a book on them, and she has many thoughts on them. Something for one of her classes.”

Elena was a teacher. She never stopped learning. Jesse admired that about her.

“So Peebles did not take the opportunity to unburden himself to you.”

“He did not. The guy looks catatonic, Jesse. It’s like he’s given up.”

Tate suddenly appeared from the hallway outside Jesse’s door, popping in uninvited.

“Maybe you could give me a few minutes alone with him,” he said. “I could persuade him, if you know what I mean.”

It was a small station, Jesse knew. People overheard conversations all the time. But Jesse didn’t like that Tate was eavesdropping on them.

Suit didn’t appear to care for it, either. “Maybe it’s not the best time for you to be joking about police brutality,” he said to Tate.

Tate smiled broadly. “Lighten up, Suit. I’m just saying, you want this guy to start snitching, I bet I could make that happen. Anybody you want him to name?”

Suit stared at Tate until the smile faded. Jesse knew he didn’t like Tate. Which was worth noticing. Suit liked everybody.

“Just a joke,” Tate said. He cleared his throat.

“Thanks, Suit,” Jesse said, intervening before the tension between them escalated.

“Yeah,” Suit said. “No problem, Jesse.”

He left, purposely not giving Tate any room as he cleared the door. Tate was broad and muscular, but Suit towered over him. Tate had to shrink against the frame to make room for Suit to slip by.

When Suit was gone, Jesse asked Tate how the day went.

“Easy,” Tate said.

“Really? No problems.”

“Nope,” Tate said. “You were right, Jesse. It’s good to get to know the people here a little.”