Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

41

Sacred Heart Catholic Church was a little out of place in Paradise. It was too large for a small town. It was more suited to Boston or New York. A Gothic Revival structure built from great blocks of light gray stone turned nearly black with a century’s worth of coal dust and oil soot, the church was impressive to behold, made even more so by its position atop the highest point in town inland of the Bluffs. When its stone steeple and cross were lit up, they were visible for miles around. The rest of the campus, the school buildings, garages, and other structures, were far more mundane.

Jesse parked his Explorer perpendicular to the church entrance, but down the hill a bit and behind some ivy-covered fencing. It gave him a very good view of things without making his presence obvious to the attendees. He wanted to sit back and observe from a distance. He was hoping to see an unexpected mourner, a face that didn’t seem to belong. The turnout at the funeral home had been so small and no one there had seemed out of place. Sacred Heart was something else. It was large enough that you could slip in and out unnoticed. You could be a silhouette in a back pew if you wished. Jesse didn’t know that he expected much in the way of results. He had made so little headway so far that he was willing to give it a try.

He called in to the station while he waited for the hearse to show.

“Suit, I’m at the church. The guys in place?”

“They’ll keep the media away from the family as best they can.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Police chief from Helton called. Alexio Dragoa’s alibi checks out for the night Maxie Connolly killed herself.”

“I figured.”

“The roads bad out there?”

“You making small talk with me, Suit?”

“I’m going nuts in here, Jesse.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Sorry.”

“You’ll get back on the street when I’m ready to put you there.”

Jesse tapped the end-call button on the touch screen. The fact was that Jesse didn’t know he would ever feel right about putting Suit back on the street. Suit’s getting shot the way he did had thrown Jesse a curve he hadn’t learned how to hit. He stared at the phone in his palm, thought about finally making that call to Dix.

Somebody rapped their knuckles against the driver’s-side window. Jesse, trying very hard not to look startled, turned to see Stu Cromwell lurking. He lowered the window.

“Jesse.”

“Stu.”

“You here on official business or are you going to the service, Jesse?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Cromwell said, “Since we’re talking, let me ask. You got anything for me?”

“Maybe I do. We can’t locate some of Maxie Connolly’s personal effects. Items we know she must have had with her when she went up to the Bluffs.”

“Like what?”

“Her cell phone, for one,” Jesse said.

“Anything else?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Not yet, but you should get some mileage out of that.”

“Some. I’m sure the missing stuff will turn up.”

“That makes one of us,” Jesse said.

“How was the turnout at the viewing?”

“Light. The family, Molly and me, but only a few other people.”

Cromwell nodded. “Makes sense.”

“Not to me.”

“It’s a black mark against the town. Paints everybody who lives here with a big, broad brush. They all just want it to go away. In a sense, they’re punishing the girls for going missing and getting killed. None of them would tell you that, but deep down, that’s what’s going on.”

“Captain Healy said something like that to me,” Jesse said.

“Smart man.”

Jesse turned to look at the newspaperman.

“You all right, Stu? You don’t look like you’ve slept in a week.”

“Rough night with Martha,” he said. “Lots of bad nights lately.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“I’m going to get up to the church now, Jesse.”

Jesse closed the window and watched Cromwell make his way up the hill in the snow. He noticed that people were beginning to show. He recognized most of them. Saw Molly arrive with her mom. He noticed Bill Marchand’s SUV pass by the church and pull into the lot. Jesse was willing to bet Marchand was the only politician who’d show his face today. When the selectman approached the church entrance, he turned and spotted Jesse’s Explorer. He smiled, waved, then made his way down the hill.

When Jesse lowered his window, Marchand offered his right hand. Jesse shook it.

“Any progress, Jesse?”

“None.”

“I’ll keep the mayor off your back as long as I can.”

“Appreciate it.”

“I don’t know how much good it’s going to do. The funerals are going to amp up the pressure on your department to get these murders solved.”

“You mean the pressure on me.”

“I do.”

“I’ll live with it.”

“What are you doing parked down here?” Marchand asked.

“Watching.”

“For?”

“For faces that don’t fit.”

“Sounds like you’re grasping at straws.”

Jesse shook his head. “Never understood that expression.”

“Me, either.”

They both laughed.

“It’s a sad day, though,” Marchand said.

“Did you know the girls?”

“I was older, but I knew who they were. Paradise is a small town, Jesse. It was even smaller back then. As a selectman, I just felt like I had to make an appearance.”

Jesse didn’t say anything, but he was caught off guard by how closely Bill Marchand’s words paralleled what Alexio Dragoa had said on the subject. But he wasn’t exactly shocked. Healy and Stu Cromwell were right. Everyone in Paradise had found a way to distance themselves from the girls’ disappearance and now the discovery that they had been murdered. It felt to Jesse almost as if they had all rehearsed the same answers. Answers that were meant to insulate them from the horror and the guilt. It wasn’t hard to understand. Then he saw a vehicle pull up to the church that got his full attention.

Jesse said, “Isn’t that Alexio’s Dragoa’s pickup?”

Marchand shook his head in disgust. “That’s his rusty POS, all right.”

“Wonder what he’s doing here.”

“Got me.” Marchand patted Jesse’s shoulder. “I better show my face up there now, Jesse. By the way, I ordered those new softball uniforms.”

Jesse nodded, but he was barely conscious of Bill Marchand. All he could think about was Alexio Dragoa and why the fisherman kept turning up in the middle of things.