Robert B. Parker’s Buried Secrets

Eight

Jesse signed off on Tate’s paperwork and finally had a moment to get back to the case. He’d been trying to get NYPD on the line all day, but one thing after another kept cropping up.

“Molly, call NYPD for me,” he shouted.

“I’m busy,” she shouted back.

“Busy doing what?” he snapped.

“Busy knowing how to dial a phone without anyone helping me,” she snapped back.

Jesse sighed. He didn’t need this today.

Then Molly came into his office with a stack of papers, fresh from the laser printer, in her hand.

“Matthew Peebles,” she said, putting the papers on Jesse’s desk. “Resident of New York. Thirty-four years old. Occupation: club manager.”

“Where did you get this?” Jesse asked.

“The wonders of the Internet,” Molly said. “I could have emailed all this to you, but you’re a caveman who hates and fears our modern ways.”

Jesse just stared at her.

“I will take that blank stare as praise for my brilliant research,” Molly said. “So listen. The address on Peebles’s driver’s license is out of date. His credit report shows he’s moved twice since then. I called NYPD to see if they could do a drop-by to talk to him at his latest place.”

“And?”

“The guy who answered told me he’d get on it just as soon as they solved every other crime in New York City.”

“Ah, the spirit of cooperation.”

“Yeah, he was almost as grumpy as you.”

“Funny,” Jesse said.

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

“So all this information and we still don’t know anything.”

“In fact, I have already taken steps to find Mr. Peebles, which reminds me of a cartoon character, now that I say it out loud.”

“Molly, would you please get to the goddamn point.”

“You are in a mood, aren’t you?” Molly said. “I showed some initiative. Called the landlord of his current apartment building, got the manager’s name and number. When I talked to him, he was a good citizen. He told me Peebles had been gone for a couple days and hadn’t returned. He even went into the apartment and checked for me.”

“Huh,” Jesse said. He thought for a moment. “So he came here to Paradise and hasn’t come home yet.”

“All evidence points in that direction.”

“Which means he could still be around here, waiting to see what happens at Burton’s place.”

“And that,” Molly said, “is the goddamn point. You’re welcome.” She turned and left Jesse’s office.

“Good work, Molly. Thank you,” Jesse said.

“Deputy chief,” she said. “Not your secretary, not just a pretty face. I think I’ve mentioned it.”

At that moment, exactly 12.3 miles away from Jesse’s office, Matthew Peebles sat on the coverlet of the bed in the motel room and tried to decide exactly how screwed he was.

He watched the morning news on WBZ, looking at the video of the growing pile of debris on the front lawn of Phil’s house. He knew this was his fault. What he didn’t know was how he could possibly fix it.

This was supposed to be easy. A regular little favor. Barely a chore. He went by the old man’s place and made sure he was still alive. Dropped off an envelope sometimes. Most of the time, the old guy barely cracked the front door. Grabbed the envelope with one clawlike hand, like a toy bank Matthew had when he was a kid, a zombie’s hand that emerged from a grave whenever you put a coin on it and snatched the coin down into its coffin.

He wondered what happened to that bank.

The reporter on the TV, all tanned, with bright white teeth and slick hair, said something that Matthew felt like a punch in the stomach.

“And now I’m being told by sources close to the investigation, Lisa, that police have found pictures of dead people in the house. There has been no comment from the Paradise PD, but these same sources tell us the hoarder was found sleeping on a mattress made of hundred-dollar bills, totaling possibly millions of dollars, I’m told.”

“Wow, Ty, that is really something. A real mystery.”

“I guess he didn’t want to use the banks, Lisa. Or a maid.”

The anchors laughed politely at the not-very-funny joke, and moved on to the weather and sports.

Matthew stayed where he was. Any chance of this going away on its own was long gone now. A hoarder with millions of dollars in his house packed with crap? That was national news right there. And pictures of bodies? That couldn’t be good.

When his phone buzzed on the bed next to him, Matthew knew who it was. Of course he’d be watching the news. Matthew’s luck just kept getting better.

Matthew took a deep breath and answered, because dodging the call was only delaying the inevitable.

“Hello?” he said.

“Well,” a dry, raspy voice said to him. “You have well and truly fucked the dog on this one, haven’t you?”

This wasn’t his fault, Matthew wanted to say.

But he knew there was no way he could say it. He was, he had to admit, too chickenshit to ever talk back.

The man on the phone was more frightening than any zombie or ghoul or horror movie.

“I didn’t know—”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear any more about how you screwed this up. Now we’re going to talk about how you make it right.”

Matthew listened. He even found a pen and a pad on the hotel desk and took notes. He was very committed to doing as he was told.

And when he hung up, he looked at his new set of instructions, and he wondered how he could have ever, in his life, thought it was cool to be a gangster.