Fool Me Twice (9 page)

“Mr. Goodwin,” Jesse said, “I’ve received complaints regarding possible irregularities at Paradise DWP. I’m here in response to those complaints. It’s part of my job. I’m simply trying to determine what happened.”

“And you think that somehow I’m involved in meter tampering?”

“I never said that.”

“But you think that.”

“I don’t think anything except that both Mr. LaBrea and now you are behaving in a puzzling manner.”

“This meeting is over, Chief Stone,” Goodwin said. “If you have any further questions, please forward them to the DWP legal department. Hopefully you’ll find satisfaction in their responses. Good day, sir.”

Jesse stared at Goodwin for a while.

Goodwin shifted his feet uneasily.

“I said good day, Chief Stone.”

Jesse left without responding.

  25  

J
esse parked his cruiser near the entrance to the footbridge that led to his house.

Wilson Cromartie was leaning against the railing, watching a flock of gulls as they made their way across the horizon, occasionally dipping into the sea in search of prey. He looked up when he heard Jesse approach.

“How,” he said, raising his palm.

Jesse smiled.

Crow was a full-blooded Apache, well over six feet tall, dressed casually but elegantly. He wore a white shirt, pressed jeans, polished boots, and a silver concho belt. He was inordinately handsome, and he moved with an easy grace. He was all angles and planes, as if he had been packed very tightly into himself. His muscles bulged against his taut skin like sharp corners. Everything about him spoke of tightly compressed force.

“So when do I get to meet her?”

“Now, if you want.”

“It’s not every day that a humble Indian brave gets to rub elbows with a real-life movie star,” he said.

“So long as that’s all you rub,” Jesse said.

—

F
rankie was in her motor home, sorting through a huge stack of bills, when Jesse and Crow showed up.

“You’re the bodyguard,” she said to Crow.

“I’m Wilson Cromartie. On occasion I perform services as a personal security specialist.”

Frankie looked at him.

“And you’re interested in performing these services for Marisol Hinton.”

“Not until I meet her.”

“And if the meeting goes well?”

“Then perhaps I’ll accept the assignment. Provided the money’s right.”

“What’s right?”

Crow mentioned a number.

Frankie gulped.

“Have you any credentials which I might present to her,” she said.

“No.”

“No credentials?”

Crow didn’t say anything.

“I see,” she said.

She looked at Jesse, who shrugged.

“Would you like to meet her?”

“Does she bite?”

“She’s a movie star. She does whatever she wants. Come with me.”

They left the motor home and headed for the wardrobe trailer, where Marisol was being fitted for one of her costumes. They knocked and were ushered inside.

Marisol was standing on a platform, modeling a full-length evening gown. A twenty-something man was instructing two middle-aged women on how to alter the hem of the gown.

Marisol looked at Crow, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

He looked at her impassively. It was difficult to gauge all that he saw, but Jesse knew from experience that he saw everything.

Frankie whispered to the young man, who then clapped his hands. The two women helped Marisol remove the gown. For a brief instant, she stood unself-consciously before her visitors, dressed only in her panties. Then one of the women hastily draped a bathrobe over her shoulders and the three of them left the trailer. Marisol closed the robe and tied the sash.

“Mr. Cromartie,” she said.

“Crow,” he said.

“What exactly is it that you do, Crow?”

“I provide personal security services.”

“Are you good at it?”

Crow didn’t say anything.

Marisol moved closer to him.

“I’m concerned about my husband,” she said, lowering her voice.

“Concerned how,” Crow said.

“We’re going through an ugly divorce. He frightens me.”

“Is he here in Paradise?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But you’re frightened of him regardless.”

“I am.”

“And you want protection.”

“Yes.”

Crow didn’t say anything.

“Are you tough, Mr. Crow,” Marisol said.

Crow looked at her.

“Tough enough,” he said.

She stepped back.

“He’ll do,” she said to Frankie.

—

C
row agreed to start immediately. He insisted on an adjoining room in Marisol’s hotel. Frankie promised to do what she could.

After leading Crow to Marisol’s trailer, Frankie and Jesse wandered off.

“You were right,” she said.

“In what way?”

“He’s awesome.”

“He’ll do.”

Frankie laughed.

“Do you have dinner plans,” Jesse said.

“I’m up to my neck in work. I’m going to eat at my desk.”

“Think how much more fulfilled you’d be were you to engage in an evening of gourmandizing and debauchery.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“I can offer you both,” he said.

“And you a highly respected officer of the law.”

“Only during business hours.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Let the games begin,” she said.

  26  

R
yan reached Jackson Hole, Wyoming, home of Grand Teton National Park, in record time.

Having smoked enough meth to keep him awake and wired, he had driven the nearly eight hundred and fifty miles from Los Angeles in less than thirteen hours.

He had pawned his gold Rolex, the watch that Marisol had given him, for five thousand dollars. He knew he had taken a heavy loss on the deal, but the money would fund his trip and allow him a brief stretch of financial breathing room, as well as enough Shabu to last him for weeks.

The Tetons stop was part of his revenge scheme. His plan called for him to make two phone calls, the first of which was to Marisol. As expected, she didn’t answer, so he left a lengthy message informing her that he was preparing to spend ten or so days camping in the Tetons, time spent clearing his mind and cleansing his soul.

The second call was to himself, or, rather, to his cell phone. When it answered, he selected the option that allowed him to change the greeting so that it now informed callers that he was currently camping in the Jackson Hole area and would be out of cell range for a while.

He placed both calls because he wanted them both to appear in his cell-phone records.

At the main gate, he purchased a ticket for entry into the park. It noted his length of stay as two weeks and listed his license plate number.

“Welcome to the Cowboy State,” the ranger on duty said, waving him on.

He parked the Prius and got out. He stretched, breathing in the crisp, clean mountain air. He walked along a tree-lined path, deep in thought. He had the uneasy feeling he had overlooked something.

He got back in the car. He reached into the glove compartment and removed the summons. He read it again. Carefully. He knew at once what it was. The insurance policy.

Shortly after their marriage, Marisol had taken out a million-dollar life insurance policy naming Ryan the sole beneficiary. The policy was not mentioned in the summons.

Which meant it was still in full force and effect.

—

O
nce the sun set and the rangers had gone home, Ryan left the park and headed east, stopping once, at a Holiday Inn near Des Moines.

In the dark, he removed the license plates from a parked Honda and mounted them on his Prius. With so many of these hybrids on the highway, there was now little chance that his would be discovered. He got back on the highway.

One thought kept running through his mind. A million dollars’ worth of insurance. With him as the beneficiary.

Damn.

He was gonna be a millionaire.

He pressed harder on the accelerator. He didn’t stop until he reached Salem, Massachusetts.

  27  

O
n a cold and rainy fall morning, Jesse passed through security and entered the bustling lobby of the Cassidy Building. The wintry weather bothered him because he knew that today was the first day of the Major League Baseball playoffs, and he believed that the chill would hamper the performance of the players.

At the front desk, he told the middle-aged receptionist that he wished to see Richard Cassidy. She regarded him as though she had just caught wind of something rotten.

“Is Mr. Cassidy expecting you,” the woman said, her nose raised as if in search of fresh air.

“Metaphorically speaking, yes,” Jesse said.

“Excuse me?”

“Would you please tell Mr. Cassidy that Jesse Stone is here to see him.”

“Mr. Cassidy doesn’t see people without an appointment.”

“He’ll see me.”

“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear. Mr. Cassidy doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.”

“I’m not here to argue with you, madam. I’m the police chief, and if you refuse to announce me, I’ll arrest you and have you hauled off to jail.”

The woman stared at Jesse, then picked up the phone and punched in three numbers. She swiveled her chair around so that her back was to him. She cupped the speaker with her hand and spoke quietly.

“There’s a Jesse Stone here to see Mr. Cassidy,” she said.

Jesse couldn’t hear what the party at the other end of the line was saying. He glanced around at the ornate lobby of the brick-and-glass edifice, all angles and curves, architecturally influenced by Frank Gehry. His attention returned to the receptionist.

“I’ve already told him that, but he’s rather insistent,” she said into the phone.

After a brief pause, she said, “That’s right.”

Another pause.

“He did mention that he was the police chief, yes.”

She listened.

After a few moments she put the phone down.

She looked at Jesse.

“Take the last elevator on your right to the penthouse floor,” she said.

“Sweet,” he said.

“You weren’t really going to arrest me, right?”

Jesse smiled.

“You’ll never know,” he said, and headed for the elevator.

—

T
he top floor of the Cassidy Building featured floor-to-ceiling windows that offered an exceptional view of Paradise Harbor and the ocean beyond. No sailors had chosen to brave the churning wintry sea, save for a lone commercial schooner bearing a sign that read
HARBOR CRUISES
.

An attractive woman in her late thirties greeted Jesse as he stepped off the elevator. She was dressed for serious business, in a tailored charcoal-gray suit worn with a slate-blue silk blouse that featured long collar points and pearl buttons. She was all smiles.

“Chief Stone,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Jacqueline Adams, Mr. Cassidy’s executive assistant.”

Jesse took her hand. Her grip was firm.

“You’re very fortunate that Mr. Cassidy could see you now,” she said.

“All morning I had this feeling that today was my lucky day,” Jesse said.

Her smile flickered for a moment.

“You have no idea how jammed up his schedule usually is,” she said.

“And you think my life is easy?”

“No. No. I didn’t mean it that way,” she said, recovering her smile. “Please follow me.”

She led Jesse down a long corridor, past a maze of closed doors and brightly lit conference rooms, to Richard Cassidy’s corner suite.

She knocked lightly on the door, and before opening it, she spoke softly to Jesse.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

“Nothing, thank you,” he whispered back.

She ushered him inside. The office was immense.

Richard Cassidy stepped from behind his oversized desk. He was dressed casually in a blue blazer, white shirt, and khaki trousers.

He grabbed hold of Jesse’s hand and placed an arm around his shoulder as if he were greeting an old and cherished friend. He led Jesse to a sitting area that overlooked the harbor.

“Did Jackie offer you something?” he said. “Coffee? Water?”

“I’m good,” Jesse said.

Cassidy nodded to Jacqueline Adams, who closed the door firmly behind her as she left, smiling all the while.

“Please sit down,” Cassidy said.

The sitting area comprised a sofa, a love seat, and an overstuffed armchair, all upholstered in white silk. Spotless, too, Jesse noticed. Side cabinets and a coffee table completed the array.

Jesse sat on the sofa, and Cassidy sat opposite him on the armchair.

“Nice digs,” Jesse said.

“Thank you,” Cassidy said. “Construction was completed last fall and we moved in just after the first of the year. We’re already being mentioned in the architectural journals.”

“How nice for you.”

“I’ve never been prouder of anything in my life.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“Does that include your family?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said you’ve never been prouder of anything in your life. Does that include your family?”

“I’m not certain that I appreciate that remark, Chief Stone.”

“Jesse.”

Cassidy didn’t say anything.

“Are you more proud of the building than, say, your daughter?”

“My daughter?”

“Are you proud of Courtney?”

“Of course I’m proud of Courtney.”

“She seems to be experiencing some kind of distress.”

“She seems to be experiencing some kind of harassment. It appears to us as if you’re dogging her.”

“If that’s what you perceive, Mr. Cassidy, you’re mistaken.”

“Come off it, Chief Stone. Jesse. She’s little more than a child.”

“She’s a young adult who’s acting out some kind of cry for attention.”