Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

3

Jesse hadn’t slept a wink after getting home. He hadn’t tried. He did manage to polish off two Black Labels. That’s why he’d headed home in the first place. Sleep hadn’t ever been a part of the plan, not really. It was always about the drinks. Drinkers are great rationalizers, spinning tales that only they will hear. Tales only they would believe. Jesse kept a bottle of something in his desk drawer at the station, but he didn’t generally prefer drink at work or when the sun was up. Coming home, having a drink before dinner, then one or two afterward, was sometimes how he got through the day. He knew his bottle of Johnnie Walker was home waiting for him like a faithful wife. He’d had a wife once, just not a faithful one.

His ritual entailed pouring the drink — sometimes on the rocks, sometimes in a tall glass with soda — stirring it with his finger, licking the scotch off his finger, raising a toast to his poster of Ozzie Smith, and taking that first sip. Sometimes he savored it. Sometimes, like that night, it was open wide and down the hatch. Any confirmed drinker knows that ritual is as integral to the addiction as the drinking itself. Dix was fond of saying that ritual was a secondary reinforcement. Jesse laughed at the notion of secondary reinforcement. He liked the drinking well enough all by itself. He enjoyed the ritual on its own merits. He’d gotten some food in him, taken a shower, and watched a half hour of weather reports before heading back to work.

Whatever sleep Jesse had managed came on the cot in his office. He was still on the cot, staring up at the ceiling, when the first dull rays of light filtered in through his window. He noticed the window was no longer being pelted and the howl of the wind had been reduced to a whisper. Morning had brought with it a soft hush. Then there was a knock at his office door.

“Come,” he said.

Luther “Suitcase” Simpson came into the office, a lack of sleep evident on his puffy, still-boyish face and in his bloodshot eyes. He was moving more slowly these days, and not from lack of sleep. It was painful for Jesse to watch. A big man, Suit had been quite the high school football player in his day. But he’d been gut-shot last spring and was only now getting back to work.

“Any coffee out there?” Jesse asked, swinging his legs off the cot.

“Sure, but I wouldn’t drink it. Better to save what’s left and use it to strip paint.”

Jesse stood, stretched the tension out of his muscles. His right shoulder aching from the damp air.

“Making a fresh pot of coffee against your religion?”

Suit reddened. “I’m not Molly, Jesse. You know I’m no good at this stuff. You got to get me back on the street.”

Simpson had been on light duty since his return and chafed at working the front desk. Worse, Molly Crane had taken Suit’s place in the patrol rotation.

“I know this is tough for you, Suit. I already stuck my neck out by bringing you back this soon.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need. I’d be mad at you if you didn’t want to get back out there.”

Suit smiled that broad, goofy smile of his. Jesse’s opinion meant everything to him. He’d always dreamed of living up to Jesse Stone’s standards, of being a cop good enough to work in a big city like L.A. Living up to Jesse is what had gotten him shot. He knew it. Jesse knew it, too. That’s what worried him.

Jesse asked, “You going to the counseling sessions?”

The smile vanished from Suit’s face. He reddened again.

“Yeah, Jesse.”

“Getting shot is a serious thing, Suit. It screws with your head. I can’t put you back out there if you’re going to doubt yourself.”

“I’m going. I said I was going.”

“Okay, let’s talk real police work. The donut shop open?”

Simpson laughed.

“I went and got some at five o’clock on the nose. They’re last night’s leftovers, but they’re good.”

Jesse put up a new pot of coffee, ate a hardened jelly donut, and asked Suit to fill him in on the storm damage.

“Storm’s almost blown itself out already,” Suit said. “We had gusts up to sixty-five, but nothing now. Dumped lots of snow. About a foot, give or take. And it’s that real wet, heavy snow. You know.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You get a lot of that wet snow back in L.A., Jesse?”

“Cute. You want to earn some more time on the desk?”

For a second, Suit thought Jesse was serious.

“Anyway, there were a few trees and power lines down. I had to dispatch some cars to block roads off and put down some flares while the repair crews did their thing. There were three fender benders. Reports already filed. Only serious thing was a partial building collapse.”

“Anybody injured?”

“Nah. It was one of those old abandoned factory buildings on Trench Alley. Molly’s over there handling it with the fire department.”

Then, as if on cue, Molly’s voice crackled through the desk speaker.

“Unit Four to dispatch, over.”

“Dispatch, over,” Suit said.

“Is Jesse up yet? Over.”

“Unit Four, Jesse’s right here, over.”

Jesse dispensed with protocol. “What’s up, Molly?”

“You better get over here, Jesse. Right now.”

“What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a body.”

“Someone was killed in the collapse?”

“Someone was killed, all right, but not in the collapse. The body’s in a tarp.”