It was a very short trip over the bridge to Stiles Island. Stiles was quite a beautiful place in the way that things in the Northeast could be. In the desert, where he’d grown up, things changed, but subtly. The changes were small ones, so that only someone with local eyes would notice them. Sure, the desert might bloom after a rain, but mostly it would seem always the same to the uninitiated. It could be like that in L.A., too. In the Northeast even a blind man could track the change in seasons. Here the seasons were scented distinctly. They had distinct sounds, distinct weather. Stiles Islanders also had the benefit of the ocean and the coves. It’s why the rich built summer homes here. Jesse had always thought Stiles was at its best and most alluring in summer. Now he was less sure. The brown grass and the silence, the desolation of winters on the island, suddenly held more appeal for him.
Jesse pulled his Explorer up to the doorstep of the security building. He remembered how, when he first came to Paradise, there wasn’t even a security building on the island, just a flimsy military-surplus Quonset hut tucked out of sight behind some hedges. Now the security offices were nearly as elaborate as the Paradise police station. It was certainly more modern and better equipped in terms of electronic surveillance. There weren’t many places you could travel on Stiles that weren’t visible to the people inside the security building. The building itself was a long way away from that flimsy old hut. With its robin’s-egg-blue clapboards, white fish-scale shingles, and bluestone driveway, it might easily have been mistaken for a gate house at one of the larger estates on Stiles. The Island, upscale to begin with, had really gone big. The homes went for millions, and that was due, in part, to the owners’ reluctance to part with them. When a Stiles house or a piece of property went on the market, there tended to be a feeding frenzy. Even during the crash, the houses on Stiles held their value.
Jesse walked through the front door and strolled right by two uniformed security men who were too busy with the array of video screens in front of their faces to pay any mind to him. All the house alarms were wired into the buildings. After the siege, resident participation in the network was no longer optional. If you bought on the island, you had to agree to be part of the network. Jesse understood that private security had its purpose, that cops couldn’t be everywhere, couldn’t guard everything for everyone, but they still made him uncomfortable. Their loyalties were bought and paid for, not a matter of duty, not a matter of right and wrong. And right and wrong were as essential to Jesse Stone as his spine.
When he made it down the hallway to the threshold of Bascom’s office, he was stopped by a tall guy in a light blue blazer with eyes to match, a white shirt, and a red tie. His light brown hair was short, gelled flat, and perfectly parted on the left side, as if he had escaped from an episode of Leave It to Beaver. His vibe couldn’t have been more ex-military if he were wearing camouflage. Jesse knew all of Bascom’s personnel. They were required to register with the PPD and produce their carry permits and prove they had met the same shooting certification Jesse’s people did. He didn’t know this guy and that didn’t sit well with him. It wasn’t because he felt Bascom had tried to put something over on him. It was more a reminder of how sloppy Jesse had been in his administrative duties since Diana’s death. He was a drunk and he hated things that made it impossible for him to deny it. On the other hand, Blue Blazer knew who Jesse was.
“Chief Stone,” he said, putting out his right hand, smiling a cautious smile. “I’m Dylan Taylor, Bascom’s new second. Happy to meet you.”
“Nice meeting you. Call me Jesse, please.”
“Will do, sir.”
Jesse smiled at him for that. “How long have you been out?”
“A year now, sir.”
“Jesse.”
“A year now, Jesse.”
“Bascom around?”
“No, sir — no, sorry, Jesse. I believe he went over to the Wickham property. Is there something I can help you with?”
“No, I think I’ll head over there. You want to give him a heads-up, go ahead. Nice meeting you.” Jesse started to turn, then turned back around. “Dylan, who did you deal with at the PPD when you registered?”
A careless smile washed over Taylor’s handsome, clean-shaven face. Jesse recognized the look.
“Alisha.”
“How’d you know?”
Jesse shrugged. “Lucky guess.”
Once outside, he just stood in the sun for a minute, eyes shut, letting it warm him.