Neither of them said anything.
After a while, LaBrea said, “Was it me you were looking for?”
“You Oscar LaBrea?”
LaBrea was a big pasty-faced man in his mid-forties. He wore yellow overalls emblazoned with the DWP logo. He had on an expensive pair of Oakley sunglasses.
“Am I in some kind of trouble,” he said.
“Not at all. I’m Jesse Stone, by the way.”
He extended his hand.
“I know who you are,” LaBrea said, taking it. “Is there something you wanted?”
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Oscar shrugged.
“You read water meters for the DWP,” Jesse said.
“For the past twelve years.”
“Good job?”
“I like it.”
“Tough job?”
“Sometimes.”
“How so?”
“Restricted access. Dogs. Dissatisfied customers. That sort of thing.”
“‘Dissatisfied customers’?”
“On occasion,” LaBrea said.
“What makes for a dissatisfied customer?”
“I don’t know. People who think they’re paying too much. Who disagree with their bill.”
“Why would someone disagree with a DWP bill?”
“Any number of reasons.”
“Such as?”
“They don’t believe they used as much water as they were billed for. They think they’ve been overcharged.”
“Are they ever right about that?”
“Not often.”
“Do people who disagree with a meter reading ever contact the department and challenge those readings?”
“Sometimes.”
“What happens in a case like that?”
“They’re wrong is what happens.”
“Is it possible they could be right?”
“Not likely.”
“But possible?”
“What is it you’re saying?”
“That a meter might register higher amounts of water usage than what the customer actually purchased.”
“Are you suggesting meter tampering?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Jesse said. “I’m fact-finding, is all.”
Oscar LaBrea stood silently for a while. Then he started walking toward his vehicle.
“Where are you going?”
“I think I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” LaBrea said.
“Why not?”
“I want to talk with my lawyer.”
“Your lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Why on earth would you want to talk with your lawyer?”
LaBrea didn’t say anything. He opened the door to his truck and climbed in. He looked back at Jesse, then started the engine and pulled away.
Jesse watched him leave.
23
The cocktail party honoring Marisol Hinton was just gathering steam when Jesse stopped by.
A collection of actors, assorted movie brass, and several members of the staff and crew had been invited to the small gathering that Carter Hansen was hosting at Noah’s Ark, a colorful theme park of a saloon located on the Paradise waterfront.
The locals referred to it as the “twofer bar.” Noah’s offered two drinks for the price of one; two appetizers, both soup and salad; two sides with each entrée; and a pair of desserts as well.
The staff and crew had converged at the bar, taking advantage of Hansen’s largesse. Noah’s mojitos were very much in demand, but the prop mistress had seductively convinced the bartender to concoct several pitchers of Long Island iced tea, which were disappearing fast.
The actors had taken over the buffet, treating themselves to hors d’oeuvres and wine. Noah’s shrimp boats, served two at a time, were a big favorite.
Selectmen Hansen, Comden, and Hasty Hathaway were among the celebrants. A handful of local merchants and other town luminaries were also there.
Jesse saw Frankie Greenberg standing at one of the tables, beside Marisol, who was nervously scanning the room with eyes that reflected both tension and discomfort. She seemed taken aback by being the focus of so many of those in the room, yet at the same time she appeared needful of that focus.
Marisol’s was a classic cinematic face. She had a prominent forehead, widely spaced large blue eyes, and sharply pronounced cheekbones. Hers was a ski nose, curling cutely upward at its tip. She had oversized lips and a notable jaw. Taken independently, her features seemed oddly incongruous. But seen through the lens of a camera, they coalesced perfectly, transforming her into movie-star beautiful.
Frankie waved to Jesse, who picked his way through the crowd toward her.
“This is who I was telling you about,” Frankie said to Marisol. “Jesse Stone, meet Marisol Hinton.”
Marisol turned her blue-eyed gaze to Jesse.
“So you’re the famous police chief,” she said.
“Serving and protecting.”
“Frankie said you used to be a cop in Los Angeles.”
“I was a homicide detective.”
“Homicide? You mean murder?”
“Yes.”
“A lot of that going around in Los Angeles.”
“There is.”
“Frankie said . . . I mean, I wonder . . .”
Her voice trailed off.
After an awkward pause, Jesse said, “What do you wonder?”
Marisol shifted uneasily.
“May I speak candidly, Chief Stone?”
“Jesse,” he said.
“Jesse,” she said. “May I?”
“Of course.”
“It’s about my husband.”
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“My husband and I are estranged. He had become violent, and I couldn’t handle it any longer. So I changed the locks and threw him out. He still frightens me, though. I thought I’d be all right once I got here, but now I find that I’m not.”
“He isn’t here in Paradise, is he?”
“No. But I’m terrified that he might show up.”
She looked at Jesse imploringly. Either she was actually frightened or she was an exceptionally good actress. Jesse wasn’t certain which.
“He calls me a lot. At all hours. He keeps telling me how angry he is. He’s always yelling. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Why not change your number?”
“He’d still find me.”
“How about I provide you with a secure phone,” Jesse said.
Marisol looked at him.
“‘A secure phone’?”
“A special police phone.”
“And you’d give me one?”
“I’d lend you one.”
“A police phone?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as you’re here.”
“And the number would be private?”
“Yes.”
“And he couldn’t trace it.”
“Correct.”
“You’d actually do that?”
“I would.”
“That would be amazingly helpful,” she said, a smile appearing on her face. “I’d really appreciate that. I would be in your debt.”
“That wouldn’t be necessary. Hopefully it’ll help ease your fears,” he said.
Jesse looked over at Frankie, who eyed him apologetically.
“I’ll see to it,” he said.
He excused himself, shook Marisol’s hand, and as he left, he gave Frankie’s arm a barely noticeable squeeze.
She smiled.
Once outside, Jesse took a deep breath. He was about to jump into his cruiser when Suitcase joined him.
“So what’s she like,” Suitcase said.
“She’s frightened.”
“Frightened?”
“Of her husband.”
“Ryan Rooney?”
“Yes.”
“Because?”
“She says he’s become violent.”
“Yikes.”
“Exactly. I need you to do something, Suit.”
“What?”
“I need you to give her one of our encrypted cell phones.”