Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

15

The following morning Jesse was sitting in his office, waiting for Healy to show so they could finally get the real police work under way, but they had to get the press conference behind them. Jesse had wanted to notify both sets of parents before going public with the autopsy results, but Ginny Connolly’s mother wouldn’t be getting into Logan until that afternoon. Molly was going to meet her flight and then drive her back to Paradise. Maxie Connolly had moved out of state six months after her daughter’s disappearance. Molly told Jesse that Ginny’s father had left before his daughter could walk.

“I don’t even remember Ginny’s dad,” Molly said, “and there were no pictures of him in their house.”

Jesse had also hoped to get an ID on John Doe before he spoke to the media, but that wasn’t going to happen. It seemed John Doe hadn’t been a popular guy. His fingerprints hadn’t gotten any hits from the local, state, or federal databases and his DNA sample was at the back of a long line at the state crime lab. The only tangible thing they had to work with was the tattoo.

As he passed the time, Jesse pounded a baseball into the pocket of his old Rawlings glove. Some men paced. Some prayed the rosary. Jesse pounded the ball. Variations on a theme. He had once been an inevitable phone call away from Dodger Stadium. Funny how inevitability is a bit more elusive than the word implies. Jesse’s dream of Dodger blue came crashing down during a meaningless exhibition game in Pueblo, Colorado. In the course of a few seconds, his future took a permanent detour away from Dodger Stadium. The team doctor said he’d been unlucky. That if only Jesse had landed on any other part of his shoulder, they probably could have fixed him up like new. If only, Jesse thought. Two of the most dangerous words in the English language. Without that powerful arm, Jesse’s career was shot. All the baseball savvy in the world won’t help you throw a runner out at first from deep in the hole. And deep in a hole was where Jesse Stone had found himself.

Jesse was still pounding the ball when Bill Marchand came into the office. Square-jawed, blue-eyed, with black and silver hair that seemed to fall into place of its own accord. About Jesse’s height, but more slender, he was one of those men whose clothes hung on him just so. It was no wonder to Jesse that Marchand had succeeded in business and politics. He had the rare combination of good looks and unforced charm that appealed to men and women alike. When Jesse saw that Marchand was close to his desk, he wrapped the fingers of his glove around the ball and put the glove back in its customary spot on his desk.

“Bill.”

“Jesse.”

“You here as friend or foe?” Jesse asked.

“Both, I suppose.”

“Those shutters hold during the storm?”

Marchand smiled. “They did. Thanks for the help.”

“What can I do for you, Bill?”

For one of the few times since they’d known each other, Marchand looked uneasy. He’d been sent to talk sense to Jesse about the murders. If it was any of the other selectmen or some other town functionary, Jesse might’ve been tempted to let him twist in the wind for a while. But Marchand usually had his back and Jesse wasn’t a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately? kind of guy. He valued loyalty and friendship even if he wasn’t very good friend material himself.

“Boys in town hall nervous?” Jesse said.

Marchand exhaled, laughed. “If you’ve forgotten, Jesse, Mayor Walker is a woman.”

“I haven’t forgotten. Bill, it will be easier if you just say what you’ve come to say.”

“She’s worried. We’re all worried.”

“With what’s going on, it’d be hard not to be worried.”

“Look, Jesse, it’s not that. We’ve had a fair share of crime around here since you came on board. Worse than in some nearby towns, much better than in some others. And you’ve gotten to the bottom of all of it. But this... this strikes at the core of things.”

“Tough to sell Paradise as the Best Little Seaside Town in Massachusetts when you’ve got the skeletons of two murdered girls and an unidentified body with half its head blown off all over the national media.”

Marchand nodded. While he didn’t always love Jesse’s lack of diplomacy, he appreciated Jesse’s ability to cut through the bull and get to the point.

“Town hall wants it to all go away quick,” Jesse said.

The selectman smiled. “That’s about right.”

“Quick isn’t my job. Doing right is.”

“How did I know you were going to say that?”

Jesse shook his head, a sly smile on his face. “Because it’s the same answer I give everyone who’s ever walked through my office door and tried to tell me how to do my job, from Hasty Hathaway on down.”

Marchand raised his palms up in front of him. “Hold on a second, Jesse. I’m a long ways away from that corrupt little prick, Hasty Hathaway. You know I’ve always erred on your side of things when matters come before us.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So why give me the treatment? We’re friends. I’m only the messenger.”

Jesse stood up from his desk chair, turned his back on Marchand, and stared out his window at the water and Stiles Island.

“It’s because we’re friends that I’m telling you this, Bill. This isn’t a parking ticket I can make go away with a wave of my hand. I’ve got three murders to deal with, two of which are twenty-five years old. Everyone in this town over the age of forty is a suspect for the old murders, and probably the new one, too.”

“Including me?”

“Including you,” Jesse said. “So tell Her Honor and her minions that I have a job to do and I’ll do it my way.”

“She can always fire you.”

“That’s her prerogative, but you’ll make sure she doesn’t do that.”

“I will?” Marchand asked. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you like winning softball championships and you’ve got no shot without me.”

They both laughed at that.

“And,” Jesse said, “you know it would look even worse if she tried to get rid of me in the middle of this mess.”

“Okay, Jesse, I’ll talk them off the ledge, but I can’t promise they won’t walk back onto it.”

“Understood.”

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”

Jesse nodded.

“What’s that?” Marchand asked.

“New softball uniforms. The old ones are beat-up.”

“Anything else?”

“An obvious suspect might be nice.”

Marchand laughed. “I’ll see what I can do about the uniforms.”

They shook hands and Marchand left. Jesse went back to staring out the window and waiting for Healy to show.