Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

67

Suit had been happy to once again escape the front desk and didn’t much care how or why. Getting to go into Boston was just an added benefit, and he liked that Jesse had let him take a Paradise cruiser to collect their “guest.” Suit knew he should have been long past the stage where strutting around in his uniform or driving a marked car mattered, but it did. He didn’t think he would ever get over his love of being a cop, though the bullet scars across his abdomen and the last month inside the station house had surely put a strain on that romance. So, too, had the drive from Boston back to Paradise.

Suit was no Sigmund Freud, but it was easy to see that this Jameson guy he’d collected at the bus station had a few pieces missing from his jigsaw puzzle. His hard blue eyes were very far away and staring at something no one else could see. And it was pretty clear, too, that he was either homeless or most of the way to the street. He smelled of old sweat and smoke, and a razor hadn’t touched his face in months. His beard was ragged, long, and black. His jeans were filthy and the cuffs were frayed to the point of disintegration. His once-beige desert boots were now blackened, scuffed, and held together with layers of duct tape. He wore an equally tattered fatigue jacket that bore the bald eagle sleeve patch of the 101st Airborne and the name JAMESON written across the left side of the chest. Most of the snaps and buttons were missing or broken and the zipper pull was gone. Beneath the jacket he was wearing a Bubba Gump Shrimp Company T-shirt that had to be as old as the movie.

Although Jameson had saluted when Suit introduced himself, it had taken all of Suit’s golly-gee and aw, shucks charm to get the guy’s rank — corporal — and that was all he got. He wasn’t about to offer up a first name or much of anything else. Getting him into the cruiser wasn’t easy, and even then Suit wasn’t sure that his passenger would stay planted in the backseat. At every traffic light and stop sign, Suit steeled himself, preparing to deal with Jameson if he tried to jump ship. Suit knew that with the cage between the front and back seats and with the back-door security locks in place, it was nearly impossible for a prisoner — or, in this case, a passenger — to escape. But none of that meant Jameson wouldn’t attempt it. Prisoners, the drunk and drugged-up ones, the crazies, sometimes did. They’d try to kick out a window or claw through the cage. It was never pretty and it could be dangerous for everyone involved. Suit finally relaxed a little when they hit the highway.

He tried to make conversation with Jameson, but had no luck with that. All Jameson did was keep his head on a swivel during the whole ride up to Paradise. Out of frustration, Suit asked Jameson if he’d like something to eat or drink. That usually worked to break the ice with everyone. Jameson was the exception. But when they passed the road sign that welcomed visitors to Paradise, Jameson stopped swiveling his head. He leaned forward in his seat as far as his shoulder belt would allow.

“Do you know Molly Burke?” he asked.

It was all Suit could do to keep his concentration on the road. Maybe this guy really was legit, Suit thought, but he wasn’t sure he should answer. When he didn’t say anything, Jameson spoke again.

“She was very pretty.”

Suit figured he better say something. “I know a Molly.”

“Is she very pretty?”

Suit ignored the question. “How do you know your Molly?”

It was Jameson’s turn to ignore Suit’s question. “He said Molly was very pretty. The prettiest girl he ever knew.”

“He? Who’s he?” Suit asked.

All that did was get Jameson to withdraw. He sat back in his seat and once again began scanning the road from side to side.

Suit tried to rescue the conversation. “Yeah, the Molly I know is very pretty.”

But it was no good. Jameson had gone back to that faraway place in his head. When he pulled up to the station, the reporters all rushed the cruiser. Suit called in to get some help, to clear the way, but it was too late. Jameson was in full-fledged freak-out mode, kicking at the street-side back-door window. Suit hopped out of the car, yanked open the roadside passenger door, and grabbed Jameson. The guy may have been a mess, probably twenty pounds too skinny for his frame, but even Suit had a tough time handling him.

“Listen, buddy, I know this is some crazy stuff going on here,” Suit said in his calmest cop voice, one that let his earnestness and sweetness show through. “But let’s you and me get this over with. Ten, fifteen steps with me leading the way and we’ll be inside. We can do it, man. Just me and you. Let me help you.”

Suit felt Jameson stop fighting him. He let Suit help him out of the back of the cruiser. Suit closed the cruiser’s door.

“Ready, Corporal?” Suit asked.

Jameson nodded, but that was when things went cockeyed. An engine revved, a loose tailpipe rattled, tires screeched. Although it would all take less than a second or two, Suit sensed what was going on, but thought he’d be powerless to stop it. The pickup truck was a blur from out of the corner of his eye. Jameson sensed it, too, and was in the first step of his retreat when Suit threw himself between Jameson and the pickup. The pickup’s front bumper clipped Suit and literally sent him flying into Jameson. Jameson’s head bounced off the cruiser’s front door. Both men crumpled to the pavement, motionless.