“Well,” Rita said. “Maybe I can
create one.”
“Hope not,” Jesse said.
Rita stood and smoothed her skirt down over her thighs.
“I just like to get a feel for the case,”
she said. “Healy told
us you were a, what did he say? It was kind of cute. Oh, he said you were a straight shooter.”
“That is cute,” Jesse said.
Rita smiled and put on a coat with a big fur-trimmed hood, which
she put up carefully over her hair.
“I hope we can talk again,” she said.
“You know where to find me,” Jesse said.
Rita looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.
“Do you want me to find you?” she said.
“I believe I do,” Jesse said.
41
Healy pushed his way past the cluster of reporters outside the Paradise Police Station. One of the print reporters recognized him.
“Captain Healy,” he said. “Is
there a break in the sniper
case?”
Microphones were pressed upon him. Television cameras came suddenly to life.
“Have the state police taken over the case? Are you planning to
offer a reward … Is there forensic evidence … Why are
you here … Do you think the Paradise police are competent to handle a case of this magnitude … Is the FBI involved
…
Is there a chance they will be … Do you have a theory of the case … Are you comfortable working with Chief Stone
…?”
Healy ignored it as if it were not there. He went in through the
front door and closed it behind him. He said hello to Molly and went past her to Jesse’s office.
“There are a hundred and twenty-three thousand people in this
great Commonwealth,” Healy said, “who have bought a twenty-two
weapon, or twenty-two ammunition in the past year.”
He sat down.
“Their days are numbered,” Jesse said.
“Or his, or hers,” Healy said.
“I think it’s two people,” Jesse
said.
Healy was quiet for a moment, thinking about it.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do
too.”
“How many of those hundred and twenty-three thousand live in
Paradise?”
“One hundred and eighty-two,” Healy said.
“And how many of them own a late-model red Saab ninety-five?”
“Three.”
Jesse felt his solar plexus tighten.
“And,” he said, “how many of
those three Saabs were parked up at
the Paradise Mall when Barbara Carey got shot.”
“According to the plate numbers your people collected,” Healy
said, “one.”
Jesse felt himself coil tighter.
“And the lucky winner is?” he said.
“Anthony Lincoln,” Healy said.
He put a note card on the desk.
“Name, address, phone,” Healy said.
“He has no criminal
record.”
Jesse picked up the card and looked at it.
“He has a class-A carry permit,” Healy said. “In the past year
he has purchased a Marlin twenty-two rifle, model nine-nine-five, semiauto with a seven-round magazine, and two boxes of twenty-two long ammunition.”
“The son of a bitch,” Jesse said.
“Be useful if we could tie the rifle to the shootings,” Healey
said.
“Funny gun for the kind of shooting we’ve been seeing,” Jesse
said. “I’d have said handgun.”
“People use the guns they can get,” Healy said.
“Think we got enough to confiscate it?”
“No. All you got is he owns a twenty-two and his car was parked
near one of the murders.”
“And it’s a Saab,” Jesse said.
“Like the one at the church
parking lot.”
Healy shrugged.
“Talk to the ADA on the case,” Healy said.
“Maybe he’s tight
with a judge.”
“Even if we can’t compel him,”
Jesse said. “Any good citizen
would be willing to submit his gun for forensics testing, unless he had something to hide.”
Healy smiled.
“Unless he wished to vigorously resist the intrusion of
government on the individual’s right to privacy,”
he
said.
“Unless that,” Jesse said. “I
guess I’ll go and visit
him.”
“You might want to be a little careful with this guy,” Healy
said. “If he’s your man he’s already killed four
people.”
“I’m a little careful with
everyone.”
“The hell you are,” Healy said.
“The last one killed, the Taylor
woman, didn’t you used to go out with her?”
“I did.”
“It will not be good,” Healy said,
“if you take it too personal
and turn into Rambo on us.”
“It’s the trick of being a good cop, isn’t it,” Jesse said. “You
got to care about the victim, and you got to care about the job.”
Healy nodded.
“And you got to be unemotional at the same time.”
“ ‘Course not everyone is a good
cop,” Healy
said.
Jesse was silent for a moment, looking at the top of his desk.
Then he raised his head and looked at Healy.
“I am,” Jesse said.
“Good point,” Healy said.
42
Anthony Lincoln’s address was a condo that had been rehabbed out
of an old resort hotel on the south side of Paradise, where it faced the open ocean. With Jesse in the front seat beside him, Suitcase Simpson parked the cruiser in a guest parking space off the cobblestone turnaround to the right of the entrance. A discreet sign said ONE HOUR PARKING. VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED.
“That’s welcoming,” Jesse said.
The building was an overpowering display of weathered shingle architecture, punctuated with brick and brass and copper that was greening beautifully. A dark green sign, larger than it needed to be, said SEASCAPE, in gold-colored scroll.
Simpson was in
uniform. Jesse wore a leather jacket, jeans, and sneakers.
The lobby was two stories high. The floor was a gray marble.
The
moldings and door casings were driftwood, or something that had been processed to look like driftwood. A concierge desk stretched along one side of the lobby, and a bank of elevators faced them.
The third wall of the lobby was glass, overlooking the beach and the ocean. Jesse held his badge out for the concierge to see. She looked at it carefully.
“Are you the chief?” she said.
“I am,” he said. “Jesse Stone.
This is Officer, ah, Luther
Simpson.”
“What can I do for you?” the concierge said
carefully.
Hers was a job that could be lost by one indiscretion.
“Anthony Lincoln live here?” Jesse said.
“Yes sir, the penthouse unit.”
“Anyone live here with him?”
The concierge was pale-skinned. Her dark hair was up. She was dressed in a dark skirt-and-blazer outfit with a small yachting crest on the blazer. She thought about the question.
“Well, Mrs. Lincoln, of course.”
“And her first name is?” Jesse said.
“Ah.” The concierge tapped the computer built into her desktop.
“Brianna, Brianna Lincoln.”
“Thank you,” Jesse said.
“We’ll go up.”
“I can call up for you, sir.”
“No need,” Jesse said as he and Simpson walked to the
elevators.
When they got to the penthouse floor, the elevator opened into a
small foyer furnished with a tan leather wing chair and a Chinese red-lacquered end table. Anthony and Brianna Lincoln were waiting for them at their door.
“Chief Stone?” Anthony said.
“The concierge called ahead.”
“I’m
Jesse Stone,” Jesse said. “This is Luther Simpson, may we come
in?”
“Of course,” Anthony said. “Tony
Lincoln, this is my wife,
Brianna.”
The room was spectacular, Jesse thought. Glassed in on three sides, it overlooked the beach, the ocean, and the stretch of hard coast, where expensive houses had been built among the rocks. There was a vast white rug, blond furniture, and cream-colored full-length drapes that looked as if one could close them if one tired of the view. Everything matches, Jesse thought.