Trouble in Paradise

Forty-Five

Jesse was in the donut shop with Suitcase Simpson. Suitcase had two Boston cream donuts on a paper plate in front of him.

“Suit, those things will kill you,” Jesse said.

“Then I’ll go happy,” Suitcase said and put half of the first donut into his mouth. As he chewed, he fished in his shirt pocket and got out his notebook. Suitcase put the notebook on the counter and leafed through it with his left hand while he held the donut in his right, leaning over the counter so that it wouldn’t leak onto his notebook.

When he got enough of the donut chewed and swallowed, Suitcase said, “I got some stuff on this guy Macklin.”

Jesse sipped his coffee. It was 10:00 in the morning. The donut shop was almost empty after the early commuter rush, and the counter people were bustling around cleaning up napkins and newspapers and throwing away stray paper cups. A guy in a white apron and tee shirt brought out a big basket of new donuts, and the smell of them mixed happily with the scent of coffee.

“Macklin’s a career criminal,” Suit said. “Mostly armed robbery. Got out of MCI Concord about six months ago. Done time in Arizona and Florida and Michigan. Got a girlfriend named Faye Valentine been with him as far back as we go.”

“Description?”

“Better,” Suitcase said and produced a mug shot.

“Harry Smith,” Jesse said.

Suitcase nodded. He was proud of any detective work he did, even if it were simply back-checking. Jesse handed the picture back to Suitcase.

“Nice work, Suit,” he said.

Suitcase’s naturally high color deepened. “There’s more,” he said. “There’s a notation that anybody got information on Macklin should contact a homicide detective at Boston Police Headquarters.”

“Which you did,” Jesse said.

“Yeah, I went to see him.”

Jesse knew that Suitcase could have called, but the chance to go into the big city police station and talk with the big city homicide cop, man to man, was more than the kid could resist. It made Jesse want to smile. But he didn’t. And it wasn’t a bad thing for a young cop to be excited by the job. Suitcase took a moment to finish his first donut. He wiped some cream filling off the corner of his mouth.

“Sergeant named Belson,” Suitcase said. “Been trying to catch Macklin for ten, fifteen years, he said.”

“Homicide cop?”

“Yeah. Says he knows Macklin murdered some people but he can’t prove it, and he has taken, like, a personal interest.”

“Macklin’s his hobby,” Jesse said.

Suitcase looked at Jesse with nearly blatant admiration. “Yeah, that’s just the expression Belson used. Hobby. Macklin is his personal hobby, he said.”

Jesse nodded. He knew that Suit would file that phrase and eventually somewhere in his career would use it, and, because he was going to be a good cop, would in fact make somebody his personal hobby some day.

“He tell you about it?”

“Yeah. He says Macklin’s a stone killer. Says there was a hostage situation in a liquor store heist couple years back in Brighton, before Macklin went to Concord. Robber held the clerk and two customers hostage when a silent alarm tripped and the cops showed up and caught him in the act. Store was in a mall, and they sealed off the front and the back. But he apparently found a way out by going through the cellar and up the stairs into one of those discount department stores next door. Nobody ever got a good look at the robber, except the hostages. When our side got in, the hostages were shot dead and the perp was gone.”

“Belson thinks it was Macklin.”

“Says he knows it was. Says a snitch he trusts told him off the record. But he could never come up with anything other than the snitch’s word, and the snitch wouldn’t testify.”

“Scared of Macklin?”

“Terrified, Belson says. And even if he wasn’t, it wouldn’t be enough. It’s hearsay.”

“Why’s he so sure it’s Macklin?”

“He was in the area. They’ve established that. He’s living good with no visible means. Weapon was a nine-millimeter handgun. Not a rarity, but Macklin’s gun of choice. And, Belson says, it’s Macklin’s style. He doesn’t mind killing people. Back as far as Belson can trace him, he’s solved his problems by shooting them. Doesn’t seem to bother him at all.”

“Belson know anything about Wilson Cromartie?”

“No.”

“Anything about Faye what’s-her-last-name?”

Suitcase checked his notebook. “Valentine,” he said. “Just that he knows that she’s been with him a long time.”

“Odd a guy like that is faithful,” Jesse said.

“Maybe he ain’t,” Suitcase said. “Maybe she is.”

Suitcase was getting older every day, Jesse thought.

“Belson got any thoughts on what Macklin might be doing in Paradise?”

“Nothing legal. Belson’s been chasing him for years, says he knows him better than he knows his wife. Says he’s a crook because he’s good at it and he likes the hours, but also because he’s a thrill junkie.”

Jesse nodded.

“Sorta like you said about him flirting with you,” Suitcase said.

“Sort of,” Jesse said.

“Belson says anything he’d be happy to help anyway he can.”

Jesse nodded.

“And he said another thing,” Suitcase looked a little uneasy and braced himself with a mouthful of Boston cream donut. “He said if we got a chance to arrest Macklin and he were, ah, killed resisting, that wouldn’t be a bad thing. He said it would be a very efficient thing.”

Suitcase took another bite of donut.

“He asked me to tell you that too,” Suitcase said.

“Sounds like Macklin has been his hobby too long,” Jesse said.

“I asked him if it was personal,” Suitcase said. “And he looked kind of mad when I asked him, but all he said was that one of the hostages Macklin killed was twenty-two years old and pregnant.”

Jesse nodded and finished his coffee.

“Well,” Jesse said, “we’ll keep it in mind.”