Killing the Blues - Michael Brandman [18]
“And?”
“I received the grade, and the shithead never bothered me again.”
Jesse laughed.
“So you’ve left a trail of broken hearts.”
“Broken desires, perhaps. Not broken hearts.”
“Never get too close.”
“Something like that,” she said.
“Not breaking the hearts of others might ensure that others won’t break yours.”
“That’s too deep for me, Jesse.”
“I rest my case,” he said.
The waitress brought their dinners. She had the pistachio-crusted salmon; he had steak. They ate slowly.
“What was it you said? You don’t speak to your ex-wife,” Alexis said.
“Not for a while.”
“Because?”
“Because I found myself enabling her to say things which were hurtful.”
“Part of her pattern?”
“Exactly. For the longest time I didn’t recognize it. I thought we were talking about reconciliation. It was what I was hoping for. Somehow I thought it was what she was hoping for, too. I was wrong.”
“And your shrink helped you to see you were wrong?”
“When I took the time to actually listen to him.”
Alexis didn’t say anything.
“I can at least recognize when I’m not acting in my own best interests,” Jesse said. “Dix once told me I was involved in a conspiracy against myself. It made sense.”
“Feels good to stop hitting yourself in the head.”
“Something like that,” he said.
“Are you ever uncertain, Jesse?”
Jesse thought about that.
“Professionally, no. Personally, nearly always,” he said.
“Because?”
“Things don’t have a tendency to work out well. What about you?”
“The opposite. I don’t feel uncertain personally, because I know that a real life would conflict with my career.”
“So?”
“So I don’t have a real life.”
“And professionally?”
“Professionally, I’m a mess.”
“Because?”
“The world has changed. Your options in this economy are limited. The stakes are incredibly high. Insecurity dogs you. Fear of failure haunts you. Welcome to the me generation.”
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“Kickboxing helps reduce the tension. Also fills my violence quota.”
“Your violence quota?”
“I imagine each lethal blow as an act of violence against authority.”
“What about a tenderness quota?”
“I don’t suppose I have one.”
“Violence without tenderness doesn’t make for a good life balance.”
“What about you? Are you tender, Jesse?”
“I was, once.”
“And now?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
19
Rollo walked at night. Late. He left the house by way of the back door, never before midnight.
He walked everywhere and looked at everything. He learned the town. He came to know Paradise as if he had been born there. No one ever saw him. He was invisible.
He made it a point to study every neighborhood. Every commercial center, park, and harbor.
He was as familiar with the yacht club as he was with the Midnight Mission. He took note of every school. He especially studied the police station.
The dark voices were always with Rollo. They controlled him.
When an unattended dog left outside challenged him, it was the voices that commanded him. Speak kindly to it, they said. Make friends with it. Kill it.
The voices instructed him to initiate a series of events that, by design, would serve to unsettle Paradise.
They informed him that deadly night crimes would frighten people, and by so doing, capture the attention of the Paradise Police Department. And its chief.
On Rollo’s behalf, the darkness was conjuring a fury that would soon be unleashed upon Jesse Stone.
20
In the morning, Jesse went directly to the safe house. He parked his Explorer in the garage and headed inside.
Perkins and Suitcase were in the second bedroom. It had been outfitted with a pair of army cots, two chairs, and a table. They would be there for as long as it took.
“Post time,” Jesse said.
Through the one-way mirror, he could see Lopresti seated on the futon, wearing the bathrobe.
Perkins called for Lopresti to stand against the far wall with his hands in the air. He unlocked the dead bolts and opened