Jesse shrugged. “We are near the water.”
Before Gabe Weathers had left the scene this morning, he’d done castings of the footprints they’d found up here, inside the crime scene tape. In addition, Gabe had taken photographs of all the prints from shoes and sneakers and sandals and whatever the hell else the ones who had come here to look at the water and the waves under what had been a full moon had been wearing. The deeper prints had enabled Gabe to pour down some of the dense liquid, Jesse forgot what it was called, that he used to make the castings.
“You gonna check everybody’s shoes?” Jesse had said.
“Why the hell not?” Gabe said. “Maybe there’s one print that doesn’t belong. Jesus, some of these kids have big feet.”
He grinned at Jesse.
“Aren’t you always the one saying we need to build cases from the ground up?” Gabe said.
“Molly keeps thinking that quoting me to me is gonna get her a promotion,” Jesse said.
“Wouldn’t that mean your job?” Gabe said.
“She already thinks she’s got it,” Jesse said.
Jesse and Molly walked away from the water now, over to where the party had been held. The kids had at least cleaned up after themselves, Jesse had to admit, around the fire pit. He found a couple stray cans. A few cigarette butts. That was it.
Night of fun.
Until Jack Carlisle had wandered off.
They’d find out, sooner rather than later, if there had been other witnesses to the fight. Scott Ford said he couldn’t even remember exactly where they’d been when the punches had been exchanged in the night.
He said he had put Jack Carlisle on the ground. Said when he realized they’d turned the whole night into Stupidville he reached down and tried to help Jack up, but had his hand slapped away. That was when Scott Ford had walked back toward the party. They would find out eventually if Jack ever came back.
“Jack’s girlfriend was at the party,” Jesse said.
“Ainsley,” Molly said.
“The doctors’ daughter,” Jesse said.
“Concierge doctors, if you please,” Molly said.
“Do we know if she went looking for him?” Jesse said.
“One of the things I plan to ask her when she gets home from school,” Molly said.
They were walking to where Jesse had parked his Explorer when they saw Nellie Shofner waving and heading their way.
“Weren’t the two of you supposed to meet at the malt shop after your last class?” Molly said to Jesse.
“Is there no end to your dated references?”
“I try so hard to be good,” Molly said.
“Try harder,” Jesse said.
Nellie got right to it. Something else she always did. Something else about her that Jesse found appealing. Her not talking just to talk. Jesse had always thought small talk shortened your life.
“The fight was over a girl,” Nellie said.
“We already know that,” Molly said.
She smiled at Nellie.
“But no worries,” Molly said, “it won’t affect your final grade.”
She told Jesse she’d wait in the car. Jesse and Nellie watched her go.
“You think maybe she and I can be friends?” Nellie said.
“Maybe you can get her to adopt you,” Jesse said.
“You got anything I can use for my story?” Nellie said.
“No.”
“Hey,” she said, “I helped you out today.”
Now Jesse started walking toward the Explorer.
“Okay, here’s what I got for you,” he said. “Ready?”
She took out her notebook.
“No comment,” Jesse said.
“Wait a second,” Nellie said, walking faster to keep up. “I thought the rules of engagement between us had changed.”
“They haven’t,” Jesse said.
“So we’re back to playing it that way?” she said.
“We never stopped,” Jesse said.
“Wow,” she said.
“We’re friends with benefits,” Jesse said. “Just not those kind of benefits.”
Nine
Molly had pushed back her interview with Ainsley Walsh until later, as Ainsley was one of the girls organizing the candlelight memorial service scheduled for O’Hara Field at nine o’clock that night.
Jesse spent the rest of his afternoon interviewing members of the Paradise High baseball team, in his office, in fifteen-minute blocks. He’d gotten all of the phone numbers from the coach, Hal Fortin.
The stories from the kids were largely the same, making Jesse wonder if they’d gotten together and rehearsed them. They were aware that something had happened between Jack Carlisle and Scott Ford. They could see from Scott’s face that at least one punch had landed when he came back. Jack never did. Everybody was lit. Nobody thought anything more of it. They were high school kids, after all, partying after the big game. All of them sure they were going to live forever.
Ainsley Walsh had left early. Len Samuels, the second baseman, said they’d just assumed that Jack and Ainsley might have gone off to talk through some stuff once Jack didn’t come back, because he’d seen the two of them arguing about something earlier.
“Lot of arguments for a victory celebration,” Jesse said.
“Not when there’s enough beer,” Samuels said.
Samuels was the last of them. When he left, Jesse sat behind his desk and opened the bottom drawer, where he used to keep his emergency scotch. His baseball glove was there now. He took it out, and his ball along with it, flicking the ball into the pocket, loving the sound of that, loving the smell of the glove, old as it was. Drinking and baseball. Baseball and drinking. He thought back to all the drinking he did, they all did, by the time they were in Triple-A. Did ballplayers still drink that much? Probably not. They went to the gym now when the game was over, not the bar. World had changed. It used to be thirty was old in baseball. Not anymore. They stayed in much better shape now. What had Mickey Mantle said that time? If I’d known I was gonna live this long, I would’ve taken better care of myself. Mickey stopped drinking finally, after being a legendary drunk. Went to Betty Ford. Got sober. Came out and died of cancer. Something else Jesse could ask God, he ever got alone with Him.
The ball went harder into the glove.
Baseball and drinking.
When he was young, he’d thought you couldn’t have one without the other. Now he’d been sober for the longest stretch of his adult life. He’d stopped counting the days, and months, and years. He went to meetings less and less frequently. But the urge to drink was always in the room. Not an elephant in the room, he thought.
Just a fifth of Dewar’s.
He knew the best thing was to find a meeting right now, keep the wolf away from the door. Elephants and wolves. Mixing my metaphors now. Such a long day. It seemed like three days since he’d left Nellie’s house and gotten the call about Jack Carlisle.
How much did drinking have to do with the death of this kid?
I’ll find out, Jesse told him.
I always have before.
He thought about Nellie Shofner now. He liked her. Liked her a lot. But he knew he didn’t love her. He’d loved Jenn. He’d loved Sunny. Maybe still loved Sunny.
What he loved more than anything was being a cop.
He loved the work. Kept him sane, at least to a point. Kept the wolf away from the door.
Idle hands, Dewar’s workshop, he told himself, putting the glove back in what had been the scotch drawer.
Ten
Two hours later Jesse was standing next to the bleachers alone, a few feet, no more than that, from where he’d watched the Paradise−Marshport game the day before.