Robert B. Parker’s Buried Secrets

Thirty-Five

Jesse had the box of donuts in one hand and the coffees in the other when he spotted the guy.

Molly had told him it was his job to provide food for the station since he was the one who’d screwed things up with Daisy. “An army runs on its stomach,” she’d said.

“We’re not an army,” he’d said. “You said so.”

“Shut up and buy the donuts,” she’d responded.

So he bought the donuts every day now, because it was easier than trying to cross the Maginot Line of Daisy’s front door.

The guy was a dozen yards from the station. He just stood there. Dark hair, thinning in front, medium build, pale. He wore a light blazer. Leaning on a Honda Accord, phone to his ear as if he was on a call, his body against the car as if he owned it.

But he didn’t. Jesse knew the owner of the Honda — Ally Kroener. She worked in the town clerk’s office part-time, so she didn’t have a regular space. Jesse had instructed his officers never to ticket her when they were on traffic detail; she shouldn’t have to pay for the privilege of working for the town — and that guy was not her.

Jesse realized time was slowing down around him, his body and his instincts already working faster than his conscious mind.

The blazer was a little too nice for the jeans and shirt underneath, but long enough to conceal something at the man’s waistline. He was also a little too animated when talking into the phone, too much like an actor playing a guy on a phone call.

The guy’s eyes flicked up toward Jesse, clocking his progress down the street. He was waiting for Jesse to get closer. Or he was just a guy noticing the chief of police with donuts and coffee.

Could go either way. But one way would get Jesse killed.

Jesse moved.

The guy put his hand by his hip, about to sweep the blazer back.

Jesse dropped the donuts. The coffees he flung straight toward the guy’s head. Still scalding hot.

The man ducked, now moving suddenly, smoothly, like a snake uncoiling.

The coffees sailed over his head, dousing Ally Kroener’s Honda, splashing the roof and windshield.

The man dropped the phone and turned toward Jesse to plant his feet and assume a shooter’s stance.

Jesse saw the gun stuck in the guy’s waistband, the butt of a Glock or a Sig, difficult to tell at this distance, but at least ten rounds in the magazine, the guy’s hand already wrapped around the grip—

— Jesse heard the box of donuts hit the pavement—

— as he slammed into the guy with his full weight, pinning him against the door of the Honda, keeping his gun hand stuck tight to his body.

They were face-to-face, nose-to-nose, the guy scowling and staring into Jesse’s eyes. He didn’t say a word, just brought up his other hand in a fist to punch Jesse in the head.

But, again, Jesse was faster, his left elbow already swinging around in a tight arc, connecting solidly against the man’s temple.

The guy’s eyes rolled, his chin pointed at the ground. He lost the defiant look on his face for a moment, but he didn’t go down.

So Jesse hit him again.

His head lolled back this time, but he still didn’t let go of the gun. He tried to push back against Jesse, but Jesse only shoved him harder against the car.

Now they were just stuck together, Jesse holding the guy, the guy desperately trying to wriggle his way out.

Jesse had his right hand on the guy’s wrist, locking his gun hand in place, the pistol still jammed into his waistband. Jesse used his left hand to grab the guy’s right wrist, holding him still. He squeezed, pushing the bones of the radius and ulna together, trying to break them.

The guy was using all his strength to hang on to the gun, his finger now on the trigger.

Jesse could almost see the bad idea cross the guy’s mind.

“You pull that trigger,” Jesse said, “and you can say goodbye to pissing standing up.”

The guy thought about it for a second.

“Okay,” he said. “I give.”

Jesse felt him surrender. He stopped struggling, and his right arm went slack in Jesse’s left hand.

“Good choice,” Jesse said, letting go of the right arm. He then punched him again, hard, in the head.

The guy’s skull bounced back against the roof of the Honda like it was on a spring. This time his eyes shut completely and his body went limp.

Jesse took the gun out of his waistband and let him slide to the ground.

The would-be shooter was out cold.

And the donuts were somehow, miraculously, still intact in their box.

Once the guy regained consciousness, he didn’t say a word as they put him in the holding cell. Didn’t give his name or even ask for a lawyer. He offered only a tight little smile when Jesse asked if he wanted a doctor, shrugging as if to say, All part of the job.

His ID was fake, but his fingerprints came back with his real name. If the computer had a flashing light and sirens, it would have lit up and buzzed like a slot machine. Madison Davis, aka Mad Dog, aka Madman, among other aliases, with a list of felonies that scrolled down the screen.

Suit took him to the county holding facility. Jesse didn’t want him in the cells anywhere near Peebles.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Suit asked, before he left.

“I’m fine, Luther,” Jesse said. “Thank you for asking.”

While Suit was worried, Molly was angry at Jesse. Even if he didn’t have plenty of experience with Molly’s temper, he would have known by the way she slammed her desk drawers shut and cursed under her breath as she began pounding the keys on her computer.

“What happened to calling for backup, Jesse?” she said. “What happened to nobody trying to take on these guys alone?”

“I saved the donuts,” Jesse said.

She glared. “You’re not as funny as you think, Stone.”

Jesse went into his office and tried to stay out of her way. She hated it when he put his own life at risk, even though she’d been in on the plan. She took it out on anything nearby, including office equipment.

Jesse, however, felt better than he had in a week. His bad shoulder finally stopped hitching up on him, and he felt like he could breathe again. He made the mistake of whistling quietly while he went past Molly to get a refill on his coffee.

“And just what are you so damned happy about?” she said.

He thought about it for a moment.

“I think we’re making progress,” he finally said.

Molly glared at him. “Because someone tried to gun you down in the street? In broad daylight? In front of the station?”

“Well... yeah,” Jesse said.

For a second, Molly looked as if she was about to throw something at him. Jesse cautiously reached across her desk and moved the stapler out of reach.

Molly watched him do it. “You’re such a comedian.”

“Thank you, I’ll be here all week.”

“Not if people keep trying to kill you,” she shot back.

Jesse smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I will.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “Yes. I keep forgetting. The bulletproof Jesse Stone. He eats hit men for breakfast.”

“I prefer donuts.”

“This isn’t funny, Jesse,” she said. “In what world is someone trying to murder you a sign of progress?”

Jesse stopped smiling. “It means they’re getting scared.”

Molly looked exasperated. “Who is?”

“The bad guys,” Jesse said. “All of them.”