Robert B. Parker’s Fallout

Thirteen

Healy left. Jesse stayed, putting off heading over to the office a little while longer, knowing that in all the big ways, Charlie Farrell and Jack Carlisle would be waiting for him when he finally got there.

He’d had bad times on this job. Maybe never a moment as bad as this one. Hit twice like this. He was staring out the window when Daisy came back and placed a Western omelet in front of him, toast, silverware. New napkin.

“Nobody likes a bully,” he said.

“Shut up and eat,” she said.

He didn’t feel much like smiling this morning. But Daisy got one out of him now.

“Who did your hair, van Gogh?” he said.

Daisy smiled back at him.

“You know, you might be the perfect man,” she said. “For a man.”

Jesse said, “You’ve got to set the bar higher than me.”

He had finished eating and was about to leave when Hillary More slid into the booth across from him, Jesse not having seen her come in.

“You only think you don’t want company,” she said. “I know better. Women know things.”

She was dressed as if she’d just come from the gym. Faded blue Tufts University baseball cap. Long-sleeved workout shirt, worn tight — I’m a cop, Jesse told himself, trained to notice details like that — with the Under Armour logo on the front. Her hazel eyes, Jesse had noticed before, were an amazing combination of brown and green. Even now, with very little makeup on, Hillary More was a knockout.

“Who am I to argue?” Jesse said.

“No shit, I have a sense of these things,” she said.

“I’d actually love some company,” Jesse said.

“Liar,” she said.

Daisy brought Hillary More a mug with a tea bag hanging out the side without being asked.

“Daisy,” Hillary said.

“Ms. More,” Daisy said, and walked away.

“Sometimes I think she doesn’t like me,” Hillary said.

“Yeah,” Jesse said, “but beneath that gruff exterior...”

“Is a pit bull,” Hillary More said.

She played with the tea bag briefly and then said, “I’m so sorry.”

“About the kid or about Charlie Farrell?” Jesse said.

“Both,” she said. “My son, Kevin, was one of Jack’s friends.”

“Was he at the party that night?”

“He wasn’t,” she said. “He’d quit the baseball team for tennis. But he and Jack still hung out sometimes.”

“We lost a great kid, and then a truly tremendous old man. But the assholes? They just keep going, and going.”

“Don’t they, though,” she said.

“Don’t tell me,” Jesse said. “You found out about Charlie on your phone.”

She shook her head. He knew it must be a trick of the light, but her eyes had seemed to darken just while she’d been sitting there.

“Nicholas called me,” she said. “He was shattered, as you can imagine.”

Nicholas Farrell and his sister were Charlie’s last living family. Their parents died in the crash of a small plane owned by some friends ten years ago, a sudden and violent storm blowing in off the ocean a few minutes after takeoff.

“I’m going to get with Nicholas at my office in about an hour,” Jesse said.

“So you’ve spoken to him?”

“He wanted to come to his grandfather’s house,” Jesse said. “I told him there was no point, not while it’s still an active crime scene.”

“Nicholas said you were the one who found Charlie,” she said.

“I went over there because I wanted to talk to him about Jack Carlisle,” Jesse said.

“Who could do such a thing to that old man?” Hillary said.

Jesse discreetly checked his watch, and waved for the check. Daisy gave him the finger in response.

“I’m going to find out,” Jesse said. “Then I’m going to arrest whoever did it. And then be in the courtroom someday when the son of a bitch gets sent away. And live long enough to spit on his grave.”

She was staring at him, eyes wide, as if seeing him for the first time.

“I don’t believe I’d ever want to get on your bad side, Chief Stone,” she said.

“Can’t lie,” Jesse said. “Few do.”