Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

82

It didn’t take long for Bill Marchand to show up in Jesse’s office after the news hit the street that Drew Jameson had escaped from the hospital while under police guard.

“Jesse, what the hell is going on with you guys?” Marchand was red in the face, and his voice was strained and loud enough to be heard beyond the office door. “The ice you’re on is already thin enough.”

But Jesse just gave him a crooked smile and gestured for the selectman to sit. “Relax, Bill.”

“Relax! How can I relax? You guys look like the Keystone Kops. Isn’t it bad enough that—”

Jesse held up his palms. “Bill, we know who killed the girls. We have two out of three of them.”

“What are you talking about? Why haven’t I heard any of this?” Marchand asked, finally taking a seat.

“Because two of them are dead. The bodies of Alexio Dragoa and John Millner washed up on the beach in North Swan Harbor early this morning. Millner shot Dragoa and Dragoa stabbed Millner. They struggled and both fell overboard. Dragoa’s boat drifted into Shelter Cover. Do you know it?”

Marchand shook his head.

“Blood everywhere on the boat. We haven’t announced anything yet because we wanted to confirm the identities of the deceased and get the autopsy results. Captain Healy is busy rounding up next of kin of both dead men in order to make the identifications.”

Marchand asked, “But how do you know they were connected to the murders?”

“Millner wrote a confession the state forensic guys found on the boat.”

“John Millner wrote a confession?” Marchand asked.

“Typed one, yeah. We found the typewriter at the maintenance shed at Sacred Heart. Why, you know Millner?”

“We played ball together at Sacred Heart. Alexio, too.” Marchand shook his head. “They were both jerks, but I never thought they were capable of this.”

“Nobody knows anybody, Bill. Not really. When was the last time you saw those guys?”

“Years ago. Maybe at Coach Feller’s funeral. I mean, we pass each other in town. So about this confession...”

“Pretty detailed. At least we now know for sure who the third body was Molly found the night of the nor’easter. Guy grew up in Paradise. Warren Zebriski. Seems that Zebriski knew about the murders all these years and came back to Paradise to ask the killers to confess. They chose to kill him instead.”

Marchand bowed his head. “The body was Warren Zebriski’s? Zevon’s?”

“You and Zebriski close?”

“I liked him better than those other two morons, but he was closer to Millner.”

“Bill,” Jesse said, “we’re almost there.”

“About that, Jesse. You said you had two of the three killers. What am I missing here?”

Jesse smiled that crooked smile again.

“I’ve got no doubt that Dragoa and Millner had a hand in killing the girls and that they killed Zebriski, too, but there’s a third hand in all of this. I sensed it from the beginning,” Jesse said, tapping his nose. “And our one witness to any part of it, Lance Szarbo, says there were five people on the rowboat he saw going out to Stiles that Fourth of July. Three guys and two girls. He was drunk, but I think he’s right.”

“Your nose and a drunken witness. Not much to go on. Did the confession mention someone else?”

“No.”

“Well, there you go,” Marchand said. “Why go looking for trouble? You saved your job. You got your killers.”

“You’re right, and if that was all I had, I’d take the confession at face value, close the cases, and never look back.”

“But...”

“But I’ve got more,” Jesse said. “I went to visit Jameson in the hospital this afternoon when I got back from Swan Harbor. We had a pretty interesting conversation. It seems he and Zebriski had gotten to be pretty close friends in Arizona. Worked together, used to do drugs together, and pretty much found God together. They even got the same tattoo as a show of solidarity. You’ve seen it. The two-headed rattlesnake around the cross. He explained what it meant. But none of that was half as interesting as the other part of what he had to say.”

“And that was what?”

“That he knows who the third killer is.”

Marchand leaned forward. “Come on, Jesse, I’m on pins and needles here.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Bill, but Jameson wouldn’t tell me. Said he didn’t trust me or my department. And given that he got run down thirty seconds after getting into town, I couldn’t really blame him.”

“I guess I can see his point. But now you’re screwed. He’s gone with the wind.”

Jesse shook his head. “No he’s not, but it’s what I want the killer to think. I’m going to let him know where Jameson is. Then all I have to do is sit around and wait for him to show. He’ll have to come after Jameson. Jameson is the only thing standing between him and never having to worry about the murders again. Not in this life, anyway. He’s risked this much. What’s one last risk?”

“Pretty dangerous to use a witness as bait, Jesse. The liability of the town would be—”

“I’m not using Jameson as bait, Bill. Give me a little more credit than that. I would never risk a witness’s life that way. I’m going to tell my suspect that I’ve got Jameson stashed at the Helton Motor Inn with one guard on him, but he’s nowhere near there.”

“So you have an idea who the third killer is?”

“No, not an idea. I know who he is. I just can’t prove it yet.”

Marchand had just opened his mouth to speak when there was a knock on the office door.

“Just one second, Bill. Come.”

It was Molly.

“Sorry, Jesse. Sorry, Mr. Selectman.”

“What is it?” Jesse asked.

“Our guest is hungry and he says there’s not much in the fridge.”

Jesse slowly rubbed his palms together as he thought. “Who’s on the desk tonight?”

“Ed.”

“No problem.” Jesse looked at his watch. “Ed will be here in a half hour. When he comes on shift, go to the sandwich shop, pick up a few sandwiches, and deliver them to our guest. If you’re feeling generous, pick him up some groceries, too. Keep the receipts. I’ll put you in for two hours of OT.”

“Thanks, Jesse.” Molly closed the door.

“Sorry, Bill. What were you saying?”

“I wasn’t saying anything. You were telling me that you knew who the third killer was, but that you couldn’t prove it.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, who is it, for crissakes?”

“Robbie Wilson. It has to be him. He showed up at the scene of the building collapse almost before Molly had a chance to find the bodies. He was there five minutes before his men. How is that possible? I’ll tell you how. He never left. He was disposing of Zebriski’s body when the building went. Then, when Molly showed, he dragged her out of the building and did everything he could to delay us from getting to the bodies. When I checked around I found out that he was old friends with both Dragoa and Millner. He’s been totally uncooperative with the entire investigation. Then when I mentioned DNA evidence to the press, bang! Two convenient fires so sloppily set that we never thought to look at the fire chief. Oh, it’s him, all right. I’m going to enjoy nailing his Napoleonic little ass to the wall. We’ve got a major-league trap set at the motel.” Jesse checked his watch again. “And speaking of that, it’s about time for me to buy Robbie a drink and to let some information slip. After that, I’m heading over to Helton to spring the trap.”

“I’ve got work to do as well.” Marchand stood, shook Jesse’s hand. “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

“Me, too, Bill. Me, too.”