Killing the Blues - Michael Brandman [5]
“Your dishabille,” Healy said.
“My clothing,” Jesse said. “A simple translation for the benefit of any dolts who might be standing in my doorway.”
“Go right ahead,” Healy said. “Where do you keep the scotch?”
“In the kitchen,” Jesse said, as he started up the stairs.
Healy went inside, found the bottle, and helped himself to a healthy pour of Jesse’s Johnny Black.
He opened the two French doors that led from the living room to the porch. He went outside.
Haphazardly placed on the porch were a love seat, a couple of tables, and a pressed-wood armchair, none of which appeared to have ever been new.
Healy sat down on the armchair, content to sip his scotch and stare silently at the sparkling reflection of the setting sun on the restless waters of the bay.
Jesse, dressed in jeans and a sweater, joined him. He carried a scotch of his own.
“Beautiful out here,” Healy said.
Jesse nodded and sat down on the love seat.
“Thanks for this,” Jesse said. “It already feels like home.”
Healy smiled.
“It’s a great house,” he said.
Jesse smiled.
They sat quietly for a while.
“I gather you lost a couple of Hondas,” Healy said.
“I wonder if there’s anyone in Massachusetts who hasn’t heard about those Hondas,” Jesse said.
“This might not be an isolated incident,” Healy said. “My guys are noticing higher-than-usual incidents of car theft. The organized-crime unit thinks this might be the start of something.”
“Something Mob-related?”
“Yes.”
“In Paradise?”
“They think so,” Healy said.
“Do the OC guys think that our friends in the underworld are organizing chop shops in Paradise?”
“We’re hearing that your so-called friends are sensing enormous potential in doing business in this neck of the woods,” Healy said.
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“Summer in particular appeals to them,” Healy said. “Large number of tourists. Lots of vehicles. They can slip in, snatch a car, strip it, chop it, and get rid of it in virtually no time.”
“Hondas and Toyotas,” Jesse said.
“Easiest to move,” Healy said.
“Lucrative,” Jesse said.
“Breathtakingly so,” Healy said.
“Any thoughts on how to stop them,” Jesse said.
“I’m with Homicide, not the Registry of Motor Vehicles.”
“There must be a connection.”
“When you find one, you’ll be certain to let me know,” Healy said.
“A fine way to start the season,” Jesse said.
“It could be worse,” Healy said.
“How?”
“It could be drugs.”
“That would be worse,” Jesse said. “Any idea who’s running the operation?”
“We’re still working on that.”
“So was this the reason for your visit?”
“This and a sincere interest in your personal well-being.”
“Sincerity hasn’t always been your strongest suit.”
“But at least I’m working on it,” Healy said.
“Try not to hurt yourself,” Jesse said.
They sat quietly on the porch, sipping their scotch, watching the sun slip lower over the horizon, appearing and disappearing amid the gathering clouds of evening.
It was Healy who broke the silence.
“There’s a cat sitting over there by the bushes.”
“Where?”
“There. Black and white. Scrawny-looking. Yours?”
“Not mine,” Jesse said.
Healy finished his scotch.
“I gotta go,” he said. “You’ll let me know if this car thing escalates?”
“You have my word on it,” Jesse said.
“Goody,” Healy said.
Jesse walked him to the door.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Jesse said.
“Thanks for the scotch,” Healy said.
Jesse walked with Healy to the footbridge.
“You gotta carry your groceries across it,” Healy said.
“I do if I want to eat,” Jesse said.
“I don’t envy you that,” Healy said.
“Me either,” Jesse said.
After Healy left, Jesse washed the glasses, dried them and put them away.
Then he went back outside to look for the cat.
5
The cat reappeared the next morning. Jesse spotted it as he gazed idly out the French doors while setting up his telephone answering machine.while setting up his telephone answering machine.
It was sitting by the bushes that bordered Jesse’s yard.
It was indeed black and white, but the fur on its face appeared to have been distributed comically.