“Yeah, the Langham.”
“Except for the time,” Suit said, “you’d think that was because they were dead.”
“You would,” Jesse said.
“Except the ME says it was only a few days before we found them,” Suit said.
“Depending on the body’s environment,” Jesse said.
“You mean somebody maybe tried to fool us?”
“I don’t mean anything, Suit. I’m grabbing at every straw that floats past. I want to know how long they were at the Langham. I want to know when they were last seen.”
“Didn’t Lutz say he’d seen them last walking up Franklin Street,” Suit said.
“He said the doorman had seen them walking up Franklin Street,” Jesse said. “And, you know, he never exactly said when that was.”
“I could ask him,” Suit said.
“Let’s just keep track of him for now,” Jesse said, “while I give it all some thought.”
“We could have some pie,” Suit said, “while you were doing that.”
“I’ll need the energy,” Jesse said.
34
Jesse sat on the edge of Marcy Campbell’s desk while she ran through her files.
“It is a booming real-estate market,” Marcy said. “I have sold more houses already this year than I sold all of last.”
She picked up a sheet of paper, glanced at it, put it back in the folder.
“I keep track of everything bought and sold in the last twelve months,” she said.
“Sold by you?” Jesse said.
“Sold by anyone,” Marcy said. “I like to keep track.”
“How’s your love life?” Jesse said.
“Busy, but we could always share a moment,” Marcy said. “Where are you with Jenn?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re still serious about her,” Marcy said.
“I am, and another woman as well.”
“And you’re serious about her.”
“Yes.”
“Which are you more serious about?” Marcy said.
“I don’t know.”
She put the folder away and took out another.
“Drinking?” Marcy said.
“Not bad, I’m drinking less than I’d like to.”
“Don’t we all,” Marcy said. “Want me to lock the office and pull down the shade?”
Jesse smiled at her.
“Rain check?” he said.
“Of course,” Marcy said. “What are friends for?”
“I think I know,” Jesse said.
Marcy grinned.
“Seriousness not required,” she said and shook her head. “No Walton Weeks.”
“How about Carey Longley?”
While Marcy looked, Jesse walked to the front window of the small office and looked out at the narrow street that led to the harbor. The houses were close together. There were no yards. The front doors were separated from the street only by a narrow sidewalk. The street was too narrow to permit parking, and as Jesse stood there, no cars passed. Two hundred years ago it must have looked much the same.
“No Carey Longley,” Marcy said. “I do have a Carey Young.”
“Bingo,” Jesse said without turning around. “Maiden name.”
“They didn’t want anyone to know,” Marcy said.
“Trying to be private,” Jesse said.
“And dying very publicly,” Marcy said.
“Where’s the property?”
“Stiles Island,” Marcy said. “Outer side. Private beach, six rooms. Four-point-two million.”
“For six rooms?”
“That’s what it says.”
“You sell it?” Jesse said.
“No. Ed Reamer, at Keyes Realty.”
“Have an address for the house?” Jesse said.
“On the sheet,” Marcy said.
She stood and walked to the window and stood beside Jesse and handed him the sheet. Then she leaned her head against his shoulder.
“Life’s pretty hard,” she said. “Isn’t it.”
“It is,” Jesse said.
“Want a hug?” Marcy said.
“I do,” he said.
35
It was a one-story stone house with a cedar-shingled roof. The living room occupied the entire front, all glass facing the ocean. There was a big fireplace on the right-hand end wall with a raised hearth. The kitchen was green granite and stainless steel. There were two bedrooms, each with a full bath, and a room with a smaller fireplace, which was probably going to be a den. The house was empty. The flagstone floors gleamed with a new finish. The walls were newly painted. There was no furniture, no rugs, no drapes, no china, no crystal, no toothpaste, no towels, nothing to suggest human life. Like seeing a person naked, Jesse thought.
He stood in the silent living room and stared out past the patio, and across the small silver beach, at the gray Atlantic Ocean. Here along the North Shore, the ocean was cold, Jesse knew, even in the summer. It took fortitude to swim in it. Jesse walked the length of the room. There was no place in the room where you couldn’t see the ocean.
They would have put the dining area here, Jesse thought. Near the kitchen. And in the winter, they would have had a big fire in the fireplace and had drinks from the built-in wet bar, and watched the spray splatter against the thermopane during a storm. This would have been Walton’s office. With the nice bay window looking at the ocean. This would have been the master bedroom, nice skylight. This one would have been the kid’s room. Jesse stood in the room feeling, suddenly, the thwarted reality of the ten-week fetus. He walked into the kitchen. A big range hood over a built-in barbecue. A pantry off the rear wall, with a walk-in refrigerator. The dream house. Every convenience. The dream must have seemed so close. Reach out and take hold of it. All of it. Wife and child. At long last, love. A walk-in refrigerator!
Jesse went in. The room was maybe eight by eight, with shelves along the three walls. There was nothing stored there. The shelves were empty. The compressor was shut off. The windowless room was warm. There was a thermostat on the wall. It was set to thirty-five. Jesse turned the switch on. Somewhere he could hear the compressor begin to run quietly. Soon he began to feel cold air. He walked around the empty space and saw nothing. He went back to the thermostat and shut it off and left the refrigeration room.
He stood for a time in the living room, listening to nothing, feeling the emptiness. Then he went outside and walked down to the beach and looked at the water. It was restless and active on the outer side of the island. There were whitecaps. The tide was high and there wasn’t much beach above the reach of the waves. The way the coastline curved, there were no other houses in sight, and he couldn’t see the road from where he stood.
He took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed.
“Molly,” he said. “I’m at Five Stiles Island Road. Send Peter Perkins out here with all his stuff. Tell him he’s going to be looking for blood.”
“Whose blood?” Molly said.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Has it to do with Walton Weeks?” Molly said.
“I don’t know yet.”
“But it might?” Molly said.
“Or it might not,” Jesse send. “Could you see if you can find Peter Perkins.”
“Yessir,” Molly said.
36
Sunny had supper with Jenn at the Union Street Bar and Grill, in the South End, across from the cathedral. Several people recognized Jenn and pointed her out to companions. When they came out, Sunny saw the stalker lingering across the street, near the sheltered bus stop. Sunny paid him no attention. She patted her left thigh as if in time to music, and gave the valet her ticket. As she got into the car she glanced in her side-view mirror and saw Spike get out of his car, two blocks back on Washington Street. She smiled and when the valet closed the door for Jenn, she put the car in gear and drove away without looking back.