Robert B. Parker’s Buried Secrets

Forty-Two

Peter drove his own car to the apartments where Tate lived, instead of using one of the department’s vehicles. He wasn’t in uniform, either. He wanted Tate to know this wasn’t an official visit.

He knew the kid was having trouble with Jesse, and he’d heard about the mess with Peebles and Rita.

But Peter thought of the department as his only family now. He’d lived alone since his wife passed away a year before. Cancer. Molly had arranged the funeral and a meal train that kept him fed until he got his feet under him again. Truth be told, that was probably why he kept putting off his retirement. He didn’t know what he’d do alone in the house.

Peter had never had kids. Maybe that’s why he wanted to help Tate fit in. Maybe he could be a father figure to him.

He was sure the kid hadn’t meant to screw up so badly. He was sure if they talked it out, he could help Tate make Jesse see that.

Peter walked up to the apartment door. It was small and cheap-looking — it was hard to get anything in Paradise, with rents the way they were — and the door opened directly to the parking lot, which was going to be pretty damn cold in the winter.

Peter smiled when Tate opened the door. He stared at Peter like he’d never seen him before in his life.

“Hey, kid,” Peter said. “Thought maybe you could use a sympathetic ear.”

Tate took a step forward, forcing Peter back. He’d never really realized how broad the kid was before, how much of his body was stacked with muscle.

“What?” Tate said, his voice tight and angry.

Peter gulped. “I thought maybe you’d want to talk about it. You know. The shooting. Maybe we can—”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence. His breath was taken away by Tate’s fist, buried deep below his sternum. The punch was quick and short and hard, coming up from Tate’s hip.

Peter couldn’t breathe. He saw spots dance before his eyes.

He realized he was on his knees in the doorway, desperately trying to suck air into his lungs.

Peter knew that kind of punch. Most cops do. It was meant to incapacitate a suspect without warning, to end the fight before there was a fight.

What he couldn’t figure out was why Tate had hit him.

Tate kneeled down and roughly grabbed Peter by his thinning hair, pulling him up so they were face-to-face.

Tate smiled at him. Peter, despite himself, tried to smile back, like this was some kind of terrible prank.

“You think I don’t know this trick?” Tate said. “You come over all sympathetic, get me to say shit? Get me to incriminate myself? You a spy for Stone?”

Peter shook his head. Not to indicate agreement, but because he still couldn’t speak, and because he wanted to tell Tate, No, no, you’ve got this all wrong.

Tate’s face seemed to ball up with frustration.

“I tried,” he said. “I really did. I tried to follow his chickenshit rules and say all the right things. But you know what? Why fucking bother? Why even be a cop if you have to follow the same rules as anyone else? I am done. From now on, nobody tells me what to do. You got that?”

He shook Peter as if that would make him listen harder.

“You tell Jesse Stone if he wants me, he’s going to have to come and get me himself,” Tate said, still gripping Peter’s hair. “He needs to do better than send a sad old man. Understand?”

Peter wheezed, trying to say something.

Tate released his hair and slapped him with the same hand. Peter blinked hard as tears began streaming from his eyes.

“Just nod,” Tate said. “That’s all I need from you.”

Jesus Christ, Peter thought. He finally understood. This kid was a psycho. He’d kill Peter right here, right on the front steps of his apartment.

Peter had never thought of himself as vulnerable. He knew he wasn’t as brave or as tough as Jesse or Suit or Molly, but he wore the uniform and he’d gone through doors where he expected to get shot.

But he’d never felt this frightened before.

Peter nodded.

Tate looked at him for a moment that seemed to stretch for minutes.

“Good,” Tate said. “Glad we had this talk.”

He stepped over Peter’s body, carrying a duffel bag. He didn’t even bother to close the door.

Peter tried to sit up and found he couldn’t.

Tate drove away just as Peter curled into himself and closed his eyes. He lay in the doorway and did not move.