Daisy, who had given Cole a job and welcomed him even before his father had, waved Jesse over. “Nice party. You shocked we pulled it off, Stone?”
“I guess.”
“You didn’t invite your girlfriend.”
Jesse laughed. “She was never my girlfriend, and she’s gone now anyway.”
“I knew that woman was an idiot. Didn’t she realize what she had in you?”
“She had her reasons, Daisy. Reasons I agreed with.”
“She ever tell you why I wasn’t a fan of hers?”
Jesse shook his head. “No.”
Daisy didn’t quite believe him. She left it at that.
It had been a quiet month since Arakel Sarkassian’s capture, but the town was changed by the violence in the streets as it had been changed by the violence and destruction of the old meetinghouse. Though Jesse was at a loss to explain why, he felt these recent events were worse somehow. Maybe, he thought, the trouble with the white supremacists was like a virus that had run its course and gone. Sure, there was damage in its wake, but a form of immunity as well. If that disease came around again, they would recognize it. This was different. There would be no immunity from drugs, only temporary respites. Even now, he knew, there were greedy people in a room somewhere, planning on how to get a supply chain back up and running in towns like his. And though he had a lot to thank Vinnie Morris for, Jesse damned him for being right about the crime that had come to Paradise.
It was good that all the kids they knew about were in treatment. Petra North as well. The DA had declined to prosecute her. Jesse had no issue with the girl but found it difficult to forgive her father. He couldn’t help but think that if Ambrose North had spoken up five minutes earlier, he could have spared a woman’s life and saved Suit the trauma of killing a man. No one was shedding any tears for the man Suit had killed. He was a murderer, after all. Nor was anyone wringing their hands over Brandy Lawton’s demise, especially not the North family. Yet Jesse understood she was a victim as well as a victimizer. Only an alcoholic or another addict could understand the hunger, the thirst, the ache.
Jesse knew despair. This wasn’t despair, but it was in the ballpark. Because, in the end, Heather Mackey’s passing would have little meaning in the scheme of things. There would be no one to pay the price. Chris Grimm, Brandy Lawton, and Georgi Lubinov were dead. The one name Arakel Sarkassian had given to the police that might have gotten them to the upper levels of the drug trade led nowhere. A week after the events in Paradise, Mehdi Khora’s bullet-riddled body was found in the trunk of a stolen car in Maine, five miles south of the Canadian border.
If he lived long enough to get there, Sarkassian himself would spend the rest of his life in prison without chance of parole. He had foolishly neglected to mention killing Chris Grimm. When the ballistics reports matched the slugs from the shooting at the hospital to those removed from the Grimm boy’s body, Sarkassian’s fate was sealed. His repeated explanations about having killed Chris Grimm to save the boy from further pain fell on deaf ears. Only Stojan had gotten clear. By the time Lundquist and the Staties got to the warehouse in Helton, the van was a burnt-out hulk and Stojan was nowhere to be found.
“Hey, Dad,” Cole said, noticing Jesse had isolated himself at a corner of the restaurant. “Why the face?”
“Nothing. I’m good.”
“Thanks for this. Thanks for everything. Whose idea was it to fly Paul and Alan in from Woodland Hills?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you’re happy.”
“Here, this is for you,” Cole said, handing Jesse a gift-wrapped package. “Before this, I haven’t given you much except a hard time. It’s my way of saying thanks for not giving up on me, on us, even though I was a real prick to you when I got to town. Open it up.”
Jesse tore off the wrapping and opened the box. Inside was a brand-new glove, the exact model he wore when he played ball. Inside the glove was a baseball signed by Ozzie Smith to Jesse. He hugged his son harder than he’d ever dared.
“They don’t make these gloves anymore. How did you get Ozzie—”
“Just say ‘thank you’ and put them on your desk.”
“Thank you. Now go enjoy the rest of the party. You have some long days ahead of you.”
As Cole walked away, Suit came toward Jesse. As Molly could read Jesse’s expressions, Jesse could read Suit’s. And what he saw in Suit’s face wasn’t good.
“I just got a call, Jesse. There’s been a shooting.”
Jesse had tried to get Suit to stay at the party, but it was no good. Truth was that Jesse was glad to have Suit with him. The address was in the Swap, a small basement apartment in a rickety old house three doors to the left of the Rusty Scupper bar. As they pulled up, they saw the one thing they dreaded seeing: the meat wagon from the ME’s office. This was no longer just a shooting, but murder.
John was at the tape doing crowd control. As he lifted the tape for Jesse and Suit, he said, “The husband’s in custody. Robbie took him back to the station to book him. We’ve bagged the weapon.” He tilted his head at the short flight of stairs at the side of the house. “She’s down there with the ME.”
Jesse and Suit gloved up and carefully made their way down the steps. The door was open, and there in the middle of the small living room was Kathy Walters’s body. She was on her back, eyes open, pale, expressionless. Even from where they stood in the doorway, Suit and Jesse could see that she had been shot several times at close range. There were defensive wounds on her hands.
“The husband had to be in a rage,” Suit said, “to keep shooting her like that.”
Jesse had nothing to add. Suit was right. But Jesse took no comfort in the fact that this wasn’t the type of crime that had migrated up from Boston. That this was a crime as old as humanity, or at least as old as when humans began confusing love and ownership.
The ME looked over at Jesse. “I’m almost done here, Chief Stone. Better get your forensics man here.”
Upstairs, Jesse called Peter Perkins, explained what had happened, and told him he was back on duty.
“What do you want me to do, Jesse?” Suit asked.
“When you get back to the party, get my friend Bill, and have him meet me in there,” Jesse said, pointing at the front door of the Rusty Scupper.
Suit clamped one of his big hands on Jesse’s shoulder. Jesse brushed Suit’s hand away, walked the few paces to the Scupper’s door, and disappeared.
When Bill got there fifteen minutes later, he found Jesse, hand around a tall glass of Johnnie Walker Black, staring into the beautiful amber liquid as if staring into a bottomless pit. Both of them understood that a bottomless pit is exactly what it was.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank the estate of Robert B. Parker, Esther Newberg, Sara Minnich, Katie McKee, and all the folks at Putnam for their support and for giving me this opportunity.
But none of this would mean anything without the love and support of my family. Without Rosanne, Kaitlin, and Dylan, without their willingness to sacrifice on my behalf, none of this would have been possible. Thank you. I love you all more than I can say.