23

Jesse hit rush-hour traffic on his way back to Paradise. Traffic was a fact of life in L.A., but he’d been away from there for a long time. Paradise had changed him. Diana’s murder had changed him. He just wasn’t sure exactly how. Not yet. Except for the occasional reminder — a call from Jenn or the odd interleague visit from the Dodgers to Fenway Park — it almost felt like L.A. had happened in another lifetime. Even when he worked a case like he was working now, relying on all the savvy he’d gained in Robbery Homicide Division, Jesse could separate the knowledge from his memories of his time on the job in L.A. He had come to put things in distinct mental boxes: Jenn here, experiences on the job there, Paradise over here.

He was thinking of L.A. now, but it wasn’t only the traffic. It was the rain. The roiling blanket of clouds that had all day hung like an ultimatum above eastern Massachusetts had made good on its gray threat. The skies opening up while he was inside the bowling alley with Vinnie, lightning snapping at him, tearing at the early dusk as he got into his Ford. In L.A. rain didn’t come and go like it did here. It didn’t throw just one or two big punches and leave by morning. When it came, it stayed. It stayed for days at a time. It hit you and hit you in the mouth and kept hitting you. And when it left, it left scars behind it on hillsides and riversides and in people’s lives. As Jesse listened to the rain pinging on the roof of his Explorer, he remembered having to be out on patrol in the relentless rain. It was odd, he thought, that he had lived in so many dry places — Tucson, Albuquerque, L.A. — and how rain was so much more dangerous in dry places. How it could rise up and swallow you. He’d heard that L.A. had dried out, that all of California had, that the rains didn’t come to stay anymore.

But Jesse hadn’t dried out. He had been able to resist Roscoe’s Red Label, but had succumbed to Vinnie’s offer of a drink without any fight at all. He could still taste the scotch at the back of his throat and began jonesing for more, the real reason the traffic was getting to him. L.A. drivers, crazy as they were, knew how to handle rain the way the people here could handle snow. Around here, rain slowed the world down, and Jesse wasn’t in the mood to be slowed down. He wasn’t in the mood for anything except his sofa and a few drinks. He knew his drinking partner, Ozzie Smith, would be there waiting for him, defying gravity, suspended in midair. Ozzie’s silence could be damning, but could be a comfort, too.

The pinging on the roof, the low radio, and his thoughts were rudely blotted out by the ringing of his phone coming through the speakers. He looked at the screen, hoping it wasn’t Tamara Elkin calling. As if hoping had anything to do with it. He didn’t know what to make of what had happened between them, not yet. Tamara, for all of her laid-back Texas attitude and upbringing, was born in New York, raised by New Yorkers, and had worked in New York. She was intense in everything she did and yet, after seeming to want him since the day they met, she’d backed off when given an opening. For all of his savvy, he thought he would never understand women.

“What’s up, Molly?”

“I got a line on next of kin and maybe an idea of what those guys were looking for in the house.”

That got Jesse’s attention.

“Let’s hear.”

“I spoke to someone at the library, Mary Henderson, and she says that although the Cain family had pretty much run through all of their money, that they did own a jewelry and watch collection. All custom-made pieces by famous designers like Tiffany and Piaget. There were also some items they had purchased over the years. She said she was sure that a few of the pieces must have been sold off or donated, but that Maude Cain must have kept some of the pieces. Maybe the guys who ransacked her house got wind of it.”

“Sounds like it. Did you get any information on the value and—”

“She said you’d have to talk to Mr. Wilmott; he runs the museum part of the library. He’s the man who would know about the value of the Cain family collections, what they had donated, and any other information. He would know if Maude might have kept anything in the house. She also says she’s sure the museum and library have some photos of the Cain collections stashed somewhere in storage.”

“Good work, Crane.”

“The only kind of work I do.”

“Not for you to say,” Jesse said, a smile in his voice.

“Somebody’s got to say it occasionally.”

“I just did.”

“Last time you said it before that was...”

“I’ll write myself a note to say it at least once every six months. You said you got a line on next of kin.”

“It’s not much to go on, but I was right, Maude had an older sister, Mercy Updike. Deceased. Died seven years ago in Vermont. She left Paradise before I was born. Mary Henderson says she and Maude weren’t close. Barely spoke. But she believes that Mercy had one child. She’s looking into it.”

“Given the strain between the sisters, I doubt we could count on any relatives for ID. I’ll talk to the ME and the town attorney about handling it through dental records. You got those, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good work. See, I said it again. Does that count toward my six-month quota?”

“You’re a funny man, Jesse Stone.”

“I’m a man of many charms.”

“Charm? Ha!”

There was a click and a two-note electronic tone denoting that the call had ended.

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