Robert B. Parker’s Buried Secrets

Forty-Eight

Jesse sat in his office and looked out the window, watching the dark clouds gathering over the ocean in the distance. The early-spring warmth had given way to a cold and wet storm front coming down from Canada, soaking everything in its path.

Paradise would be inundated before nine p.m. He expected he’d get more than a few calls to rescue stranded drivers or help someone with a flooding house.

There had been no further word about Tate. Jesse had pursued every lead he could think of and come up empty. Tate’s parents hadn’t spoken to him in years, or at least they said they hadn’t. He didn’t seem to have any friends in Paradise, and hadn’t made any in Helton, either. The Philadelphia PD had put up a stone wall when Jesse called them, preferring to keep Tate strictly in the past.

Jesse didn’t have to wonder how a guy like Tate found himself so alone. But he did wonder where he found shelter when he’d finally gone too far.

He got up and poured himself more coffee just as the storm broke overhead. It sounded like someone had turned a firehose on the station’s roof. He hoped the building would stay dry. After his last argument with the mayor, he didn’t think they’d get any money for emergency repairs.

Peter Perkins was out of the hospital, at least. He was at home recovering, minus his spleen. He was going to have a hard time fighting infections without it. Jesse had been to see him once. Peter had been quiet. He said he didn’t blame Jesse. Maybe he even meant it.

“You think he’s coming back?” Peter had asked, just before Jesse left. The home health aide wanted him to go; Peter needed his rest. But the thought of Tate clearly terrified Peter.

So Jesse lied. “I think he’s as far from Paradise as he can possibly get, and if he’s smart, he won’t come back.”

But that was the thing. Tate wasn’t smart.

In his gut, Jesse knew that he wouldn’t have to find Tate.

He knew Tate would be coming back for him.

He just didn’t know when.

At that moment, Tate sat with Elliott and Raney in Elliott’s rental outside the station, under the rain streaming down from a big tree in the corner of the public parking lot across Atlantic, next to the park. In high summer, Raney figured, they never would have gotten a spot like this. But the hour and the rain kept everyone off the streets except for a few other cars that looked abandoned.

They could see a light on in the station window.

“That’s got to be him,” Tate said, looking out the windshield.

Elliott sat in the back seat. “Okay.” He checked his watch. “Time to go.”

“Showtime!” Tate whooped, bouncing a little in his seat like a kid at a carnival.

Christ, what an asshole, Raney thought.

“Yeah,” Elliott said. “Sure.”

He popped the door open and slipped out, moving like a shadow in the rain.

Then he vanished into the darkness without a trace.