Killing the Blues - Michael Brandman [20]
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Ms. Jameson. Lucy. I’ll send one of my officers. Perhaps he might be of service.”
“Thank you.”
Jesse called for Rich Bauer, who quickly appeared in his doorway.
“Go take a look at Lucy Jameson’s dog, will you, Rich? Maybe you can detect something.”
“You bet, Skipper,” Bauer said.
“Rich,” Jesse said, “may I ask you a favor?”
“A favor? Sure thing, Skipper. Name it.”
“Quit calling me Skipper.”
Jesse left the office and drove off in his cruiser. He needed some down time, and he chose to take it patrolling Paradise in search of miscreants. Showing the flag, so to speak.
He found a few illegally parked cars and stopped to write the citations. He took comfort in the unseemly chore of writing parking tickets.
He thought about the Robert Lopresti adventure. He knew he was operating outside of the law. Ironically, as a small-town police chief, Jesse had always believed that acting outside of the law was a perk. He was well aware of the personal risk he was taking. But he was intent on stirring the pot.
Gino Fish ran organized crime in Massachusetts. Gambling, prostitution, vending machines, construction, sanitation. He had relinquished narcotics because they were against his principles.
Although he didn’t know who was running the car theft operation, Jesse was certain that Gino Fish was pulling the strings from behind the scenes. Perhaps a meeting with him was in order.
He wrote another handful of tickets, then went home.
It was after dark when Molly Crane finished work and was finally able to leave the station. Everyone else had already gone.
She went around the office turning off lights. She checked to make certain the coffeemaker was off. She grabbed her coat and her bag and left the building.
Once outside, she locked the door behind her. She took a couple of deep breaths and headed for her car.
Then she stopped and stood still. She looked around. She thought she heard something. She listened for a few moments. Then she walked to her car. After looking around once again, she got in and drove away.
Secure in the knowledge that she was gone, Rollo Nurse slipped out of the hedges alongside the building.
Not yet, the voices had said to him.
22
Once home, Jesse put away his paraphernalia, and began to straighten up the house. He wore a T-shirt and boxer shorts, and was feeding the cat when he heard knocking on his door.
“Dammit,” he said.
He picked up his pistol from the kitchen console and press-checked it on his way to the door.
He was stopped dead in his tracks by the appearance of Alexis Richardson. She stood in the doorway, a sack of Chinese takeout in her hand.
“Nice outfit,” she said.
Jesse looked at her.
“I took a chance,” she said.
He didn’t say anything.
“I always find Chinese a safe bet. You haven’t eaten, have you?”
Jesse stared at her.
“Are you going to ask me in or shoot me,” she said.
Jesse realized that his pistol was still in his hand.
He lowered it. Then he opened the door wider so she could enter.
She stepped inside.
He looked down at himself for a moment. Then he looked up at her.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
When Jesse went upstairs, Alexis wandered into the living room.
“I’ve never actually been inside the home of a police chief before,” she called to him.
When he didn’t respond, she stopped to look at the picture of Ozzie Smith which hung on the wall above the fireplace. She studied it for a while. It was an incredible photo. It created the illusion that the Hall of Famer was flying. His body was floating lengthwise in the air, hovering above the ground, his glove hand extended, a caught ball lodged inside the glove.
When Jesse returned, wearing khakis and a blue shirt that he hadn’t tucked in, she asked him about it.
“He was the best shortstop I ever saw,” Jesse said.
“And you wanted to be like him,” she said.
“I was never that good,” he said. “All I wanted was to make the show. Have a shot.”