Fool Me Twice (16 page)

Jesse stepped over to LaBrea’s cell. He stared in at him. LaBrea shied away.

“Do you really think you could have done it,” Jesse said.

LaBrea didn’t say anything. He was breathing through his mouth.

“You don’t have the cojones,” Jesse said.

LaBrea remained silent.

Jesse turned away from him in disgust.

There was nothing left to say.

—

I
t was dusk when Jesse opened the door to his house and was greeted by a complaining Mildred Memory. She hadn’t appreciated his absence and let him know it. She followed him into the kitchen, where he put his service belt and pistol on the counter and then fed her.

He poured himself a scotch.

When Mildred had finished eating, Jesse picked her up and sat down in one of the armchairs in the living room.

As a show of gratitude, she proceeded to lick his hand with her sandpaper tongue, then stretched out across his lap and rested her head on his forearm, pinning him to the chair. She purred contentedly.

Jesse sat back and thought about Frankie Greenberg and of the feelings he had developed for her, which he had not yet taken the time to analyze. She had suddenly appeared in his life, and they found themselves together. He liked her. He enjoyed spending time with her.

But he understood how new they were, and how uncertain. And how unlikely it would be for their relationship to continue once the movie was over.

What did that say to him? That he was attracted to dead-end relationships? That commitment continued to elude him by his own choice?

He thought briefly about Jenn and wondered where she was and who she was with. He had successfully rid himself of the burden of his ex-wife, yet at times like this, unsettled times, she still entered his mind.

He considered calling her, but he knew better than to invite her back into his life.

Here he was, once again adrift, his premises uncertain.

He reached around Mildred and poured himself another scotch. But he stopped himself from drinking it. He realized he was on the brink. He put the glass down.

He couldn’t bring himself to dislodge the sleeping cat from his lap, so he leaned back in his chair and struggled to make himself more comfortable.

Then he was asleep.

—

R
yan Rooney couldn’t sleep.

Finally he got out of bed and went to the darkened living room. He replayed the shootings over and over in his mind. He was happy to have administered a proper fate to Marisol. He cherished the look in her eye when she realized that it was him. She got what she deserved.

As for Frankie Greenberg, he was both astonished that he had shot her and remorseful for the deed.

It was a knee-jerk reaction, he kept telling himself. He hadn’t intended to do it. When she started toward him, he shot her in self-defense.

Maybe it was the crystal meth. Perhaps his judgment had been impaired.

To his great surprise, he was consumed by guilt. He couldn’t get it out of his mind.

He would now be forced to change his plans. He had rented the cabin for a month. He would stay there and wait it out. He would make his move when more time had elapsed and surveillance became lax.

He would stay off the highways. He would take the back roads. He would head north to Maine, where he could illegally cross the border into Quebec and disappear into the Canadian wilderness.

He reached for his paraphernalia and his Shabu rock.

He breathed the air of invincibility.

I’ll get through this,
he thought.

  49  

M
olly arrived at the station to find Courtney waiting outside.

The two women didn’t speak. They eyed each other warily as Molly unlocked the door and they went inside.

“Would ‘Good morning’ be too much for you,” Molly said.

“Being here wasn’t my idea.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“You could’ve just as easily said it yourself.”

“It’s generally good manners for younger people to offer greetings to their elders.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Courtney said.

“Charming,” Molly said.

Molly showed her the supply closet. The cleaning equipment was inside. She picked up a mop and showed it to Courtney.

“This is a mop,” she said.

Courtney didn’t say anything.

“You ever see one before?”

Courtney snorted.

“I’ll bet you never handled one before,” Molly said.

“Is this what it’s gonna be like being here?”

“Get used to it.”

Molly withdrew a handful of ancient rags and a can of Endust.

“You know how to use this stuff?”

“No. Show me.”

“Figure it out for yourself. Go dust the bookcases and the desktops, and everything else that looks like it might have dust on it. When you’re finished with that, go downstairs and mop the floors. And when that’s done, clean the toilets.”

“The toilets?”

“That’s right.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Then you’ll find yourself standing in front of Judge Weissberg again with the female house of detention looming large in your future.”

“This isn’t fair.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you broke the law.”

Courtney picked up a mop, the Endust, and the rags. She headed for the squad room.

“Hey,” Molly said.

Courtney turned back.

“Try to enjoy yourself,” Molly said.

“Whatever,” Courtney said.

—

T
hey had agreed to meet for breakfast at Daisy’s at seven. Jesse arrived promptly, but when he got to the table, he found Lucas Wellstein already in full rant. His audience was Captain Healy.

Beside him was a stack of newspapers, each emblazoned with a Marisol Hinton headline.

“You’re late,” he said to Jesse, then continued unabated. “We checked out the break-in at the cottage. It’s likely that the killer was staying there. We found food remnants and drug-related debris. We’re running tests now.”

“Are you thinking it was Ryan Rooney,” Jesse said.

“It’s possible. But who’s to say he’s not deep in the bowels of the Grand Tetons, eating pork and beans from a can, and that someone else did it.”

“I am,” Jesse said.

“I’m sorry,” Wellstein said.

“I’m to say,” Jesse said.

“To say what?”

“That he’s not deep in the bowels of the Grand Tetons, eating pork and beans from a can.”

“Then where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you can say with a degree of certainty that he’s not in the Grand Tetons.”

“Yes.”

“Either back it up with facts, Stone, or keep your opinion to yourself.”

“Are you eliminating him from suspicion?”

“Ryan Rooney?”

“Yes.”

“No. But I also like someone else.”

“Who?”

“Wilson Cromartie.”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“His DNA is everywhere.”

“And that’s why you suspect him?”

“That’s part of the reason.”

“And the other part?”

“She appears to have been verbally abusing him publicly.”

“He didn’t do it.”

“I believe the evidence is inconclusive. It was nighttime. Hinton and Greenberg were sitting apart from the action. In the dark. Who’s to say your Mr. Cromartie didn’t step up to them and fire?”

“He had no cause.”

“He had plenty of cause. If she was disrespectful of him in public, who knows how she behaved in private. What if she resisted his romantic advances.”

“‘His romantic advances’?”

“He was sharing a hotel suite with a beautiful woman. Who’s to know what took place between them?”

“Nothing took place between them. And they weren’t sharing the suite. He was in an adjoining room.”

“Thank you for your opinion, Stone.”

“Since when did I become Stone?”

Wellstein didn’t say anything.

“Yesterday it was Chief Stone. Then it was Jesse. Today it’s Stone. How did I fall from grace so quickly?”

“Don’t get into my face with your bullshit,” Wellstein said.

“My bullshit?”

“That’s right.”

“Let me guess,” Jesse said after a moment. “Princeton.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m guessing Princeton. With your extraordinary people skills and your incredible charm, you had to have graduated from Princeton.”

“Fuck off,” Wellstein said.

“See, I knew it.”

“Where’s your bodyguard now?”

“My bodyguard?”

“You’re the one who hired him.”

“Marisol Hinton hired him,” Jesse said.

“On your recommendation. Where is he?”

“Last time I saw him was yesterday.”

“Well, today he’s disappeared.”

“Ryan Rooney did it,” Jesse said.

“Why don’t we wait until all the facts are in before arriving at that conclusion,” Wellstein said.

Jesse stood.

“You know where to find me if you need me,” he said to Lucas Wellstein.

He glanced briefly at Captain Healy, then left the restaurant.

—

J
esse was heading for his office, and as he passed Molly’s desk, he motioned for her to follow.

She sighed, stood, and joined him.

“I hate to admit it, but you were right,” she said as she sat down in the chair opposite his desk.

Jesse looked at her.

“Girl’s a first-class pain in the ass.”

“It’s our job to change that. To show her the light.”

“I need to fish out a copy of my contract.”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“Showing the light to some candy-assed debutante isn’t in my job description.”

“But think how gratified you’ll be when the job’s done.”

“In the immortal words of the debutante herself, ‘Blah, blah, blah.’”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“When she finishes dusting, I’m gonna have her mop up downstairs,” Molly said.

“Excellent. Don’t let her forget the toilets.”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself about that.”

The phone rang, and Molly reached across Jesse’s desk to answer it.

“Suitcase,” she said.

She handed him the phone and walked out of his office.

“What’s up,” Jesse said.

“
A Taste of Arsenic
has been officially canceled.”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“Movie’s in the process of shutting down,” Suitcase said. “Vehicles and personnel are disappearing fast.”

“Hansen know?”

“He’s watching it happen.”

“Keep in touch.”

“I will.” Jesse hung up the phone. He sat back in his chair and thought for a while.

Just like that, the movie was over. The FBI had arrived, and the investigation into Marisol’s death now belonged to them. There was still no sign of Ryan Rooney. Captain Healy mentioned that FBI agents were on their way to Grand Teton National Park to search for him there. Crow had gone to ground. Amazing how quickly things changed.

After a while, Jesse left the office and headed for Boston.

  50  

J
esse wandered through the chrome-and-glass lobby of the Cone, Oakes, and Baldwin building on Constitution Square and boarded the high-speed elevator for the ride to the penthouse. Once there, he asked a receptionist to inform Rita Fiore that he had arrived for their appointment.

There was something electric about Rita when she strode through the big glass doors. Her deep green Donna Karan suit set off her fiery red hair. The knee-length skirt had just the right flare at the hemline to showcase her remarkable legs. The smile on her face reflected both curiosity and her own appreciation of Jesse’s appeal.

“Jesse Stone,” she said, with the faintest hint of amusement in her voice.

“None other,” he said.

She guided him back through the glass doors that led to her office. Her assistant asked if he needed anything. “Coffee would be nice,” Jesse said.

“Me, too,” Rita said.

He sat in front of her desk.

“What brings Jesse Stone into my parlor,” she said.

“You mean other than the opportunity to appreciate your legs?”

“Occasionally there are other reasons.”

“I’m riding the horns of a dilemma.”

“How poetic.”

He told her the William J. Goodwin story.

“The combination of his physical size, his voice, and the way he dresses makes him so stereotypically laughable that he’s often underrated and an easy target for ridicule. Especially in the corridors where the big boys roam. What he did was wrong. Unquestionably so. What’s eating at me, though, is the belief that he himself was wronged. He paid an inordinately hefty price for his physical misfortunes.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing has happened.”

“I understand too well how cruel the real world can be. What I don’t know is whether his actions are defensible under the law.”

“Which is why you’re here.”

“That and the legs, of course.”

“Of course,” Rita said.

They sat silently for a while.

“Here’s this weird-looking little guy who hits upon a potentially viable solution to a burgeoning problem and seeks to have it considered seriously at the highest levels. He’s articulate. He’s passionate. But he is who he is, and no one will take him seriously. He cracks. He takes matters into his own hands.”

“You want to know whether a crime is punishable if it was provoked by damaging and prejudicial behavior.”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

She struggled to find the exact definition that suited her.

“If the accused was the victim of persecution,” Rita said, “and, as a result, suffered diminished faculties and distorted judgment, and then subsequently committed a crime that he believed he had been goaded into committing, is that crime punishable under the law?”

“That would be the question,” Jesse said.

She thought about it for a while.

“I’d need to talk it over with my partners,” she said.

“Meaning?”

“It might make for a compelling argument. Would a jury see fit to convict in the face of it? I’d need to consider that some more.”