Trouble in Paradise

Forty-Three

Jesse drove up to talk with Harry Smith. He brought Suitcase Simpson with him and Anthony DeAngelo. Both of them wore vests and carried shotguns. If Travis Randall was afraid of the Indian, Jesse would be too.

“Stand by in the car,” Jesse said. “If I get scared, I’ll holler.”

Walking up the stairs to the front door of condo 134, he could feel the muscles tighten across the back of his shoulders. He’d seen some scary gangbangers in South Central L.A., but there was something about the way Randall had talked about the Indian.

Mrs. Smith answered the door. Jesse was not in uniform, and she drew a blank at first. He showed her his shield.

“Jesse Stone,” he said. “Paradise Police.”

Faye felt a stab of fear run the length of her gut.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Chief Stone. What brings you here?”

“Well I was hoping to talk with Mr. Smith. Is he home?”

What did he want? Why was he here? The thing on Stiles Island had already started. How could it be a coincidence? She had to make him talk. She had to know.

“No, I’m sorry. He’s not, may I help you with something?”

Faye noticed that there were at least two more cops below in the cruiser.

“I don’t know,” Jesse said. “May I come in?”

“Of course.”

She stepped away from the door, and Jesse went into the apartment. The wall opposite was all glass and looked straight out onto Boston Harbor, with the Boston skyline across the water. The doorway to the bedroom was ajar, and Jesse noticed that the ceiling was mirrored. Atta girl, Mrs. Smith. She was a good-looking woman. Nice body, looked strong.

“Coffee?” she said. “Or something stronger? I suppose I shouldn’t say that, should I? You being a policeman on duty and such.”

She did the fluttery housewife thing pretty well, Jesse thought, but if you paid attention there were a lot of little details that suggested strength, not flutter.

“Nothing, thank you, Mrs. Smith. May I sit?”

“Of course. Please call me Rocky.”

“Short for?”

“Roxanne,” she said.

Jesse nodded. Faye marveled at how she’d pulled “Roxanne” out of the air. What the hell would “Rocky” be short for?

“Do you know anyone named Wilson Cromartie?” Jesse said.

“Wilson Cromartie, no. I can’t say I do,” she said.

It was an easy lie for Faye because when he said the name, it didn’t mean anything. Only as she was saying it over, did she realize that it was Crow.

“Maybe you don’t know him by that name,” Jesse said. “He’s an American Indian. Says he’s Apache, calls himself Crow.”

“I’m sorry, Chief Stone. I really don’t know anyone like that.”

Jesse nodded again. He was pleasant and easy speaking. But Jimmy had said he was more than he seemed.

“How about anyone named James Macklin?” Jesse said.

Jesus Christ. Faye felt the thrill of fear jag through her intestines. How much does he know?

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“You’re not sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. It’s just that you meet so many people...”

“A maroon Chevy van registered to Wilson Cromartie was parked underneath this condo Sunday night, and three men, one of whom appeared to be an American Indian, came out of this condo and got into the van and drove away.”

He knows something’s up, Faye thought. But he doesn’t know what. If he knew what, he wouldn’t waste time talking to me like this.

“They were here to see Harry,” she said. “I don’t think he knew them very well.”

“What were they here to see Harry about?”

“I don’t know. They had some sort of business proposal. I believe Harry wasn’t interested.”

“What’s Harry’s business?” Jesse said.

Mrs. Smith smiled. “He always says he’s like a strapless gown — no visible means of support,” she said. “I guess you’d say he was an entrepreneur. Real estate. Banking. Stocks and bonds. Buys a business, builds it up, sells it at a profit. I frankly don’t pay a bunch of attention to my husband’s businesses.”

“Wilson Cromartie is a career criminal,” Jesse said.

“He is? My God. I didn’t spend any time with them, but he seemed perfectly nice when I let them in.”

“I thought you should know,” Jesse said.

“I’ll tell Harry. Maybe he knows. Maybe that’s why he wouldn’t do business with them.”

Jesse sat quietly looking at her. Everything she said was plausible. And Jesse didn’t believe any of it. Something was going on. But he had no basis to arrest her or search her home or do anything else but what he’d done. He took a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Mrs. Smith.

“Please ask your husband to give me a call when he comes in,” Jesse said.

She put the card down, face up, on the glass-topped coffee table.

“Of course,” she said.

Jesse stood. She stood with him and walked with him to the door.

Driving out of the Navy Yard, Suitcase glanced at Jesse.

“Just the woman in there?”

Jesse nodded.

“So you didn’t need us?”

“Nope, I was able to hold her at bay.”

They were quiet as they drove toward City Square. Jesse sat beside Suitcase. Anthony DeAngelo sat in back.

“You happen to fuck her, Jesse?” Anthony said.

“Not this time,” Jesse said.

“Good to know there’s someone,” Anthony said.

He and Suitcase chortled lengthily as the cruiser turned onto the ramp and headed north over the Tobin Bridge.

Jesse said, “You guys have little interest in making sergeant, I assume.”

This made both of them chortle harder, as the cruiser headed back to Paradise.