Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

8

After Molly left, Jesse went out to talk to Suit. But Suit spoke first.

“Molly okay? She’s acting weird.”

Jesse nodded.

“Word’s spreading, Jesse... about the bodies. Stu Cromwell from the paper just called for you.”

“I figure we’ve got about an hour before it goes national. Then the phone’s going to ring off the hook.”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“For now, say that there won’t be any comment until we get autopsy results and official IDs on the bodies. I’ll scribble something out that we can release as an official statement. I’ll call over to the mayor’s office to see if we can’t get someone to answer the station house line, so you can do your job. I’ll handle Cromwell.”

“Thanks, Jesse.”

“How old were you when the girls disappeared?”

“I was a kid. I wasn’t even sure what was going on, really. All I can remember about it was how freaked-out my mom and all the other moms on the block were. She made all of us stay close to the house that summer, especially my big sister.”

“Did your mom or dad talk to you guys about what happened?”

Suit laughed. “My folks weren’t great communicators, Jesse. But you know how grandmas talk about bad things? You know, like when they talk about cancer and they whisper it or call it the C word? It was like that. We could always tell when the parents on the block were talking about what happened to those girls because they would whisper or look... I don’t know.”

“Ashamed?”

Suit shrugged his big shoulders. “Like I said, I don’t know.”

“Anybody ever talk about it after that summer?”

“The next summer, I think. Around the Fourth, maybe. But after that, I can’t remember people ever bringing it up. Until this morning I had forgotten about it. I guess there’s some shame in that.”

“You look hard enough at anything,” Jesse said, “and you’ll find some shame in it. You recall anything else about that summer, you come to me with it.”

“You mean don’t talk to Molly about it.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Guess I’m not as dumb as I look,” Suit said, but only half jokingly.

“You keep handing me straight lines like that and I’m going to start calling you Luther. And no, Suit, I never thought you were dumb.”

“Thanks, Jesse.”

“Forget it. Do me a favor.”

“Sure.”

“Call the paper and get Stu Cromwell over here.”

Suit tilted his head, furrowed his brow. “I thought you hated the press.”

“They have their uses,” Jesse said, a smile on his face.

“You going to give him an interview?”

“We’ll let him think that.”

Suit punched the paper’s number into the phone.