Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

62

Jesse was back in his office, pounding a hardball into the pocket of his old Rawlings glove. The leather in the pocket of the glove was nearly a memory. Any padding in the glove had long since been beaten into dust and disappeared. He stared at the glove as he pounded the ball, each impact making a loud thwack that echoed through the station, each impact stinging his left palm. He remembered back to when his left hand, his glove hand, was so accustomed to rocket line drives and relay throws from the outfield that came in like shotgun slugs that he barely noticed them. That had been a long time ago now, longer with each passing breath. But he didn’t mind the stinging. It helped him think and he had a lot to think about. What he was thinking about in particular at that moment was John Millner and his alibi.

Although the maintenance man’s alibi held up to scrutiny, Jesse didn’t doubt for a second that John Millner was somehow involved in the arson from the tips of his steel-toed boots to the tip of his fist-flattened nose. Mutts like Millner knew a hundred other lowlifes who would do dirty work for pay, who would set their own grannies’ houses afire for a few six-packs and a hundred-dollar bill. But why had Millner made himself so conspicuous? The answer was unsettling and simple: He was giving cover to someone else.

It didn’t remind Jesse of anything so much as a magic trick. The magician is waving one hand with a flourish to get your attention while doing the real business with his other hand. The thing was, John Millner was no magician. The guy could barely keep himself out of prison, let alone pull a rabbit out of a hat. That was the unsettling part. If it wasn’t Millner pulling the strings, who was pulling Millner’s? And what was the endgame? What was the trick? That’s what he was asking himself when there was a knock on the pebbled glass of his office door.

“Come,” he said, folding the ball into the glove and placing the glove in its spot of honor on his desk.

Bill Marchand stuck his head through the door. “You sure this is a good time?”

Jesse laughed. “No, but come in anyway.”

Marchand sat across from Jesse, dispensing with the usual handshake.

“My week’s not up,” Jesse said.

“It’s not, but the fires yesterday aren’t helping me help your cause any.”

“You’re just pissed off because you’ve probably got to pay on those policies.”

“Only one of them.” Marchand winked. “Can a man get something to drink in here?”

Jesse didn’t answer. He just reached into his desk drawer, pulled out the bottle, and poured a few fingers for the selectman. As he poured, Jesse studied Marchand out of the corner of his eye. He was back in form, looking his usual well-put-together self. Jesse was glad he hadn’t been a party to the meetings where his fate was being discussed. He suspected that Bill had fought the good fight, but in the end Marchand was a politician and politicians did a strange kind of calculus. Deal-making is like sausage-making, not usually a pretty sight to behold. Jesse was fairly sure that when push came to shove, Bill Marchand held his nose and threw Jesse to the wolves. He didn’t blame Marchand, nor had it changed his opinion of the man.

“Nothing for you?” Marchand asked when Jesse slid the drink across his desk.

“That’s all I need, to drink on the job in front of a selectman. No, thanks, Bill. I want the rest of my seven days.”

“Come on, Jesse, I would never report that. You know me.”

“I don’t think you’d report me, Bill. But that second thing you said, that’s wrong. Nobody knows anybody else. Not really. Cops learn that early on or they don’t stay cops for long. Go ahead, drink up. Cheers.”

Marchand nodded, raised his glass, and drank. “So, any progress on any fronts?”

“Some.”

“Some?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Jesse shook his head.

Now Marchand shook his head, too, only in a more exaggerated manner. “I don’t get you, Jesse. I’m trying to help.”

“See, Bill, that proves my point. Nobody knows anybody else.” He held the bottle up. “A little more?”

“I haven’t finished this one yet.”

There was another knock at the office door. This time Suit stuck his head in.

“What’s up, Suit?”

“You got a Captain Giulio from the NYPD on line two.”

“About?”

“He wouldn’t say, but he asked for the chief. Last time I checked, that was you, Jesse.”

“Thanks, Suit.”

Marchand stood and pantomimed leaving, but Jesse waved at him to stay and finish his drink. Marchand sat back down and Jesse picked up the phone.

“Captain Giulio, Chief Stone here.” Jesse didn’t speak for the next two minutes. He made a few noises in the right places to indicate that he was listening and that he understood what the captain was saying on the other end of the line. He jotted a few notes, then said, “Okay, Captain, if you think so, sure. Fax his photo over and I’ll have someone meet him at the bus station in Boston. I appreciate the help. If I can ever return the courtesy, let me know. Thank you. Bye.”

“What was that about?” Marchand asked.

“Probably nothing. Some wounded Afghanistan war vet named Jameson with PTSD got into a fight in Manhattan last night. He was picked up by the NYPD.”

“That’s too bad, but what’s it got to do with Paradise?”

“This Jameson guy says he can identify our John Doe, and this Captain Giulio believes him.”

“Do you?”

“We’ll see. He’s scheduled to arrive in Boston tomorrow morning around eleven.”

Marchand finished his drink. “Thanks for that. I’ve got to get going.”

“All right.”

“Listen, Jesse, I’m sorry about how all of this is turning out. You know how highly I think of you.”

“That’s fine. I’ve still got a few more days.”

Marchand said, “That’s true. Things could turn around.”

“Bill, you never did tell me why you came here today.”

“It was nothing, forget it.”

With that, the selectman was gone. And Jesse went back to thinking about John Millner and trick rabbits.