They were quiet again. Jesse had done this long enough to know that the fifty minutes were almost up.
“You think her career is her chance at redemption?” Jesse said.
“I don’t know,” Dix said. “What do you think?”
“Weather girl isn’t much of a redemption,” Jesse said.
“How about investigative reporter?”
Jesse nodded.
“I just demeaned her a little, didn’t I,” he said.
Dix didn’t answer.
“I must be madder at her than I know,” Jesse said.
“Almost certainly,” Dix said.
“You think she’s after redemption?” Jesse said.
Dix looked at his watch, as he always did before closing the session.
“We’ll have time to think about that on our own,” Dix said. “Until next time. Time’s up for today.”
“Hell,” Jesse said. “Just when it was getting good.”
18.
Crow stood in front of a three-decker on an unpaved street that was little more than old wheel ruts overgrown with stiff, gray-green weeds. There were tenements on either side of the rutted street, the paint long peeled, the clapboards gray and warped with weather. A street sign nailed to one of the tenements read HORN STREET. Crow walked down to a sagging three-decker that blocked the end of the street. Over the skewed front door was a number 12.
A small path that might once have been a driveway ran around the tenement and Crow followed it, walking carefully to avoid the beer cans, fast-food cartons, dog droppings, used condoms, discarded tires, bottles, rusted bicycle parts, and odd bits of clothing and bedding that were strewn outside the building. Behind the tenement was a metal garage, which had been repainted without being scraped. The bright yellow finish was lumpy and uneven. The maroon trim, Crow noticed, had been applied freehand and not very precisely. A window in the side of the garage had a window box haphazardly affixed below it. The box was filled with artificial flowers. The garage door was ajar. Above the garage door was the number 12A.
Crow went through the half-open door into the garage.
Inside, there were six young men and a huge rear-projection television set. The young men were drinking beer and watching a soap opera. When Crow stepped into the garage they all came to their feet.
“Who the fuck are you,” one of them said.
“I’m looking for Esteban Carty,” Crow said.
“And I said who the fuck are you?”
“My name is Wilson Cromartie,” Crow said. “You Carty?”
“You ain’t a cop.”
The speaker was short, with shoulder-length black hair and a full beard. He was wearing a tank top and there were gang tattoos up each arm.
“Cops don’t come in here alone,” he said.
“I’m still looking for Esteban Carty,” Crow said. “And I’m getting tired of asking.”
“Hey, Puerco,” the long-haired kid said. “Wilson getting tired of asking.”
Puerco was big, with a shaved head, weight-lifter muscles, no shirt, and a round, hard belly. His upper body was covered with tattoos, including one across his forehead: PUERCO.
Puerco stared at Crow. He had very small eyes for so large a man. There was something else peculiar about his eyes, Crow thought. Then he realized that Puerco had no eyebrows. Crow wondered if it was a defect of nature, or if Puerco had shaved them so as to look more baleful.
“Getting tired of Wilson,” Puerco said.
“People do,” Crow said.
“Throw him the fuck out,” the long-haired kid said.
“Sí, Esteban,” Puerco said.
“Okay,” Crow said, “you’re Carty. I’m looking for Amber Francisco.”
Puerco stepped across the room toward Crow. Without appearing even to look at him, Crow hit him with the edge of his right hand on the upper lip directly below the nose. Puerco screamed. It was so explosive that none of the others had time to react before Crow had a gun out and pointed at them. Puerco went down, doubled up on the floor, his face buried in his hands, moaning.
“So,” Crow said. “Where do I find Amber Francisco.”
“I don’t know nobody named Amber Francisco,” Carty said.
“Girl who bought you the television,” Crow said. “What’s her name?”
“No bitch bought me nothing,” Carty said.
Crow lowered the gun and shot Puerco through the head as he lay moaning on the floor.
Esteban Carty said, “Jesus.”
No one else spoke or moved. Crow pointed the gun at Esteban Carty.
“Amber Francisco?” Crow said.
“Bitch bought me the TV name is Alice,” Esteban said, “Alice Franklin.”
“Where’s she live?” Crow said.
“She lives in Paradise, man, her and her old lady.”
“Thank you,” Crow said. “I’ll kill anybody comes out this door while I’m in sight.”
Then he stepped through the door and walked away through the trash, toward the street.
19.
Molly came into Jesse’s office with Miriam Fiedler right behind her. Molly stopped in the doorway, blocking Miriam Fiedler from entering.
Molly said, “Ms. Fiedler to see you, Jesse.”
There was a glitter of amusement in Molly’s eyes.
“Show her in,” Jesse said. “You stay, too.”
Molly stepped aside and Miriam Fiedler brushed past her angrily.
“This woman is deliberately annoying,” she said.
“I doubt that it’s deliberate,” Jesse said. “Probably can’t help it. Probably genetic.”
“I find her impertinent,” Miriam Fiedler said.
“Me, too,” Jesse said.
Molly sat down to the right of Miriam Fiedler and behind her.
“Is she going to stay here during our meeting?” Miriam said.
“Yes,” Jesse said.
“I don’t want her here,” Miriam said.
Jesse nodded. Miriam waited. Jesse didn’t speak.
“Are you going to send her out?” Miriam said.
“No,” Jesse said.
“Chief Stone,” Miriam said, “may I remind you that I am a resident of this town, and as such am, in fact, your employer?”
“You may remind me of that,” Jesse said.
“Are you being sarcastic?” Miriam said.
“Yes,” Jesse said.
“I find it offensive,” Miriam said.
“Ms. Fiedler,” Jesse said, “it is standard practice in this office that Officer Crane be present when a woman is alone with any male police officers. She will stay as long as you are here.”
“Well, it’s a stupid rule,” Miriam said.
“Did you come to berate me?” Jesse said. “Or have you something substantive?”
“I wish to report several instances of Hispanic gang infiltration of Paradise,” she said. “Ever since that school was established on Paradise Neck…”
Jesse nodded.
“Specifically?” he said.
“Specifically,” Miriam said, “I have recently seen several Hispanic gang members on the street in downtown Paradise.”
“How recently,” Jesse said.
“In the last two days.”
“And how did you know they were Hispanic gang members.”
“Well, my dear man,” Miriam said, “you can tell just looking.”
“What did they look like?” Jesse said.
“Dark, tattoos, one of them was wearing some sort of hairnet.”
“Dead giveaway,” Jesse said. “How many did you see.”
“Two one day,” Miriam said. “And three yesterday, walking side by side, so that they took up the whole sidewalk.”
“Did they do anything illegal?” Jesse said.
“Well, they weren’t here to sightsee,” Miriam said.
“But you are not actually reporting a crime?” Jesse said.
“The press is investigating this, too,” Miriam said.
“I heard,” Jesse said. “Have they uncovered a crime?”
“Take that attitude if you wish,” Miriam said. “When they hurt someone, then you’ll act?”
“We’ll keep an eye out,” Jesse said.