Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

37

He pulled up to the maintenance shed on the grounds at Sacred Heart Girls Catholic just as he had on the night the nor’easter blew into town. This time there was no flash and roar of gunfire, no need for him to back up into the delivery bay. No body for him to dispose of.

“It would creep me out, working here. Doesn’t it ever get to you?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Because the girls went to school here.”

“Yeah, I guess. Sometimes,” he said, draining the oil from the old red tractor they used to plow the snow off the sidewalks in front of the school. “Mostly, I don’t think about it. I can’t afford to be choosy. With my record, I’m lucky I got a damn job at all.”

“Which one of you shot Zevon?”

He turned, looking over his shoulder at his visitor. “Who do you think?”

“You?”

“’Course. I didn’t like Zevon that much to begin with and I liked him even less that he came back to town. Besides, our other pal talks a good ball game, but underneath, Mr. Tough Guy’s... you know him. He was the one that caused all this shit to begin with. You know what he had the nerve to tell me at the Scupper the other night? That he didn’t even wanna go to Stiles the night we... you know, that night.”

“I call bullshit on that!”

“That’s what I said. You hear about Maxie Connolly?”

“Sure,” he said. “Looks like she killed herself. Threw herself off the Bluffs, but that doesn’t mean you were wrong the other night. Our friend’s definitely a problem.”

“He’ll be all right. You know how Alexio gets sometimes, all hot-blooded and crazy. We just got to keep him calm, hold his hand a little. That’s all.” He turned around again. “Come over here and help me with this filter a second. The guy who put it on didn’t lube it and then put it on so tight—”

“Do it yourself. I’ve got to get back to my office. I can’t get dirty.”

“No, that’s right. You don’t like getting dirty.”

He ignored the dig. “It’s too late for hand-holding. Jesse’s already had a talk with him.”

“With Alexio. Shit!” He dropped his wrench, sent it clanging against the concrete floor. “What? What happened?”

“Alexio was in the Whaler Lounge at the hotel and Maxie Connolly walked in. First he hit on her and then he got all stupid, telling her how sorry he was about Ginny. A few hours later, she was dead.”

“You don’t think Alexio—”

“He didn’t. But Jesse Stone is smart. Alexio’s on his radar screen now and he’s not coming off it until the chief has somewhere else to look.”

“Hey, don’t even think about putting Stone on me. I’ll give you—”

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “How far would it get any of us to throw suspicion at you? No, we’ve got to think of a way to get Jesse to look someplace else. You think Alexio still has the knife from that night?”

“Sure he does. You know how cheap he is. He’s still got his grandpa’s first nickel. He won’t sell fish to the tourists because he thinks it’s a waste.”

“Okay, give me a day or two. I think I might have an idea of what to do.”

“What should I do until then?”

“Nothing. Not a thing. Finish changing the oil. Go about your job. Do what you always do. If Alexio calls, keep him calm and tell him we’ve got it all under control.”

“Do we?”

“Do we what?”

“Have it all under control.”

“Not all of it, not yet, but we will.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’ve gotten us this far. Let me worry about it. Don’t call me unless it’s an emergency. I need time to set things up. I’ll be in touch when I’m ready.”

“You got someone in mind?”

“I do.”

“Okay, then. You better get out of here.”

He left without another word. He knew what had to be done, but in spite of his urge to just get it over with, he knew he had to keep his wits about him and wait for the right moment. Unlike that night on Stiles, he couldn’t let this spiral out of control.