Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

59

Robbie Wilson was waiting for Jesse when he got back from Dix’s. Robbie, built like a lumpy bowling ball, was in a fresh set of his fire-chief blues, his little white legionnaire-style cap looking silly on his balding head. Jesse waved to him that he’d be with him in a minute and stopped to talk to Suit at the desk.

“You come up with anything yesterday?”

Suit stood and motioned for Jesse to come into the conference room.

“What’s up?” Jesse asked when Suit closed the conference room door.

Suit smiled that big goofy smile of his. “I got two witnesses said they spotted a white van in the area. One witness at each location. Their statements are on your desk.”

“We get a description of the van beyond it being white?”

“We did. Both witnesses say the van was pretty banged up. One says he thinks it was a Chevy.”

“Thinks or is pretty sure?” Jesse wanted to know.

“Pretty sure.”

“Beat-up white van sound familiar to you, Suit?”

“John Millner.”

Jesse said, “Great minds think alike.” He clapped Suit on the shoulder. “Good work.”

“It gets better. Last night Millner called in after we were both gone and—”

“Reported his van was stolen.”

Suit’s smile got even broader. “Some coincidence, huh?”

“Remarkable.”

“Sounds like somebody’s covering his ass to me.”

“To me, too,” Jesse said. “We get a description of the driver from either witness?”

Suit shook his head. “Nothing solid. Sorry. One witness thought he saw a tall man in blue work clothes by the O’Hara garage, but wouldn’t swear to it.”

“Could be Millner,” Jesse said.

Suit agreed. “Sounds like him. Should I send somebody around to pick John up for questioning?”

“Not yet. Maybe later the two of us will go have a little talk with him. Give me a few minutes in my office and then send Robbie in.”

“It felt good to be on the street again, Jesse.”

“I know.” He patted Suit’s biceps. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Jesse sat down at his desk and picked up the phone to call Tamara Elkin to apologize for his behavior. He put the phone down. He thought he should get a better sense of what was going on with him before he called. It was his experience that a call too soon was worse than no call at all. He pulled out his bottom drawer and looked at his office bottle. He thought about it for a few seconds, then closed the drawer.

Robbie Wilson knocked on the door and stepped into the office without waiting for the come-ahead. That was Robbie Wilson to a T. Jesse could only imagine the fit Robbie would have thrown if Jesse just strolled into Robbie’s office without permission.

“Chief Stone.”

“Robbie.” Jesse nodded toward the chair in front of his desk.

“No, thanks. I’m just here to give you these.” He placed two folders on Jesse’s desk. “They’re the preliminary reports on yesterday’s fires. I knew you’d want them. We’re declaring them both arson. An accelerant was used in both fires, probably the same one. My guess, it was gasoline, but we won’t know until we get the full analysis back from the lab. The idiot didn’t even use a lighter. We found matches at both scenes.”

Jesse laughed, remembering that Tamara had brought up the old saying about criminals having half a brain.

“I say something funny, Chief?”

Jesse shook his head.

“I heard Marchand bought your boys new uniforms for the softball season. I didn’t ask our sponsor yet. I guess you beat me to the punch on that one, Stone.”

“Not everything is a competition, Robbie.”

“Yes it is. Everything’s competition. That’s what Coach Feller used to say. Used to tell us that anyone who doesn’t realize everything’s a competition is a loser and will always finish second.”

“Coach Feller?”

“He was a legend around here. Coached basketball at Sacred Heart Boys Catholic for thirty years.”

“No offense, Robbie, but you don’t look like much of a b-ball player,” Jesse said as diplomatically as he could manage.

“Wasn’t. Football was my game. But I was team manager for the basketball team. It was an honor just to be around Coach.”

“Were you manager when a guy named Warren played?”

“Zevon? Sure.”

Jesse made a face. “Warren Zevon, like the rock star?”

“His name was Warren Zebriski, but everybody called him Zevon. Small forward. Stupid asshole had a full scholarship and just pissed it away.” Wilson shook his head in disgust. “Came home after his first year and never went back to school.”

Jesse was curious. “What happened to him?”

Robbie shrugged. “I don’t really know. Heard he just left town that summer. Why do you ask?”

“Forget it. Thanks for these.” Jesse held up the files. “Let me know when you get the full lab report back.”

Wilson turned on his heel and left. Jesse suddenly had a much better understanding of Robbie Wilson. Some people, he thought, never do graduate from high school.