Robert B. Parker’s Damned If You Do

9

At exactly one-thirty, Jesse entered the Boston Common at the corner of Tremont and Boylston Streets.

Heavy gray clouds hung low in the darkening spring sky, bringing with them a blast of humidity and the threat of rain. The Common was alive with people on the move, many carrying umbrellas in anticipation of the approaching storm.

Jesse walked toward the bench on which sat an elegant African American woman, casually dressed in jeans and a sweater, sporting an oversized floppy black hat and, despite the darkening sky, a pair of red-framed Ray-Ban sunglasses.

An imposing gentleman of color stood to the side, his restless eyes scanning the crowd. They stopped when they spotted Jesse.

“Chief Stone,” the man said.

“Yes,” Jesse said.

The man nodded. He didn’t offer his hand. He was tall and slender, imbued with athletic grace and craggy good looks. He had on a custom-made, narrow-cut black suit, a powder-blue shirt, and a striped gray tie. His suit jacket was unbuttoned and hung open just enough for Jesse to see the handle of a Beretta protruding from a leather shoulder holster.

“I’m Thomas,” he said. “I’m going to presume that no harm will come to Ms. Edgerson.”

“Certainly not by my hand.”

“Confidentiality?”

“Assured.”

Thomas nodded and pointed Jesse to the bench.

“May I,” Jesse said, glancing at the bench.

She nodded. He sat.

“Jesse Stone,” he said, by way of introduction.

She looked at him and said nothing. She removed her Ray-Bans, revealing large brown eyes that regarded him coolly.

“You’re a police chief,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m not generally in the habit of cavorting with police chiefs.”

“We’re a forthright bunch. Upstanding, too.”

“Upstanding’s good,” she said, smiling.

Jesse looked at her more closely. She was in her late thirties. Her stylish outfit emphasized her enticing figure. She was strikingly attractive.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Police Chief?”

“I’m investigating the murder of a young woman. A prostitute. I have no clues as to her identity. She’s nowhere in the system. I’m trying to learn her name.”

“What would this have to do with me?”

“Perhaps nothing, for all I know. It was Mr. Fish who suggested that we speak. The dead woman is currently a Jane Doe. Another piece of detritus that washed ashore in the night. If I knew her identity, at the very least I might help bring about proper closure. Maybe save her from an anonymous burial. Perhaps even relieve her family’s anxieties about her fate. It could also put me on track to finding her killer.”

“I see.”

She sat quietly for several moments.

“And you want me to sniff around on your behalf. See what I can learn.”

“That would be helpful.”

“All right,” she said. “I’m not promising anything, you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Just because we may have been in the same business doesn’t insinuate familiarity. We’re not all members of some pansy-assed sorority, you know.”

“Duly noted,” Jesse said.

She grinned at him.

“Do you have some kind of a business card,” she said.

Jesse stood and pulled one from his pocket. He wrote his home and cell phone numbers on it. He handed it to her.

She looked at it and nodded.

“Thank you, Ms. Edgerson.”

“Clarice,” she said.

She stared at Jesse for a moment, then she stood, took Thomas’s arm, and together they left the Common.