Robert B. Parker’s Buried Secrets

Thirty-Two

Jesse was walking through the front of the station on his way back from the cells when he noticed the guy standing inside the front door.

He was young, Jesse thought, but it was hard to tell. He wore a Dodgers baseball cap, sunglasses, and a KN95. Jesse still saw older people wearing those, but not many young people.

Jesse turned to him. “Can I help you?”

The guy tilted his head, as if considering the question.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. You Chief Jesse Stone?”

Jesse put his coffee cup on the nearest desk. Something in the guy’s tone, his stance, pinged his radar. Made him want to have both hands free. Jesse was no quick draw, but he could clear his gun fast and still shoot accurately.

Once again, he wished the town had let him put bulletproof glass between the entrance of the station and the desks. But Armistead hated the idea. It sent the wrong message, he said. “We’re a friendly little town, Jesse,” he’d said. “Try not to treat everyone who comes into the station like a goddamn terrorist.”

“I’m Chief Stone,” Jesse said. “What can I do for you?”

The guy nodded, like he’d just been proven right about something. “Doesn’t seem like much of a police station. More like a cute little dollhouse. You get a lot of crime here, Chief?”

“Not much,” Jesse said, putting his right hand on his belt, near his gun. “Paradise is usually a nice place.”

“Yeah, it looks nice here. Pretty. Quiet.”

“It is. Most of the time.”

“What happens when it isn’t?”

“Then we handle it,” Jesse said.

They stood for a moment, facing each other.

Then Suit walked in from the back. “Hey, Jesse,” he said. He stopped short. Looked at the guy and at Jesse. Immediately picked up on the tension in the room.

The two of them faced the man in the mask.

The guy seemed to make a decision.

“Well, I’m sure that’s a great comfort to the people who live here,” he said. “Nice little town.”

“You looking to move here?” Jesse asked. “You give me your name, I can probably have a realtor get in touch with you.”

“Aw, that’s really nice, Chief,” the guy said, already backing away, toward the doors. “But I’m just passing through. Thanks for your time.”

He turned and exited.

Suit turned to Jesse. “What the hell was that about?”

Jesse didn’t respond. He went around the desk and out the door, looking down the street.

The guy was gone.

Suit was right behind Jesse, his hand on his gun, ready for anything.

“Jesse, what’s going on? Who was that?”

Jesse looked both ways again. The guy must have run, ducked down an alley. No way to tell where he was now. And Jesse didn’t want to go chasing him around a bunch of blind corners.

“Those bad guys I said were coming?” Jesse said. “First one’s here. And he wants us to know it.”

Raney took off the ball cap and the KN95. He’d gotten his first look at the station and the cop. Neither one seemed all that impressive.

Raney couldn’t believe his contact, Burton, had lived in this upscale little place. It was like the whole town was a yacht club. Everything looked like it cost more than you could afford; if you had to ask, it was too expensive.

Burton had hooked Raney up with some of his first jobs. The photos were from one. A Honduran immigrant who’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to or was agitating for more money at his sweatshop. Raney couldn’t recall the details now; he tended to forget them as soon as he was done with a job, like he was clearing space on a hard drive.

Maybe there was something to that news report about the money Burton left behind.

Maybe there was a way to get paid after all.

Seeing how rich this town looked, he was sure the chief of police wasn’t going to be a problem. A town like Paradise, he was probably more like a butler than a cop.