Robert B. Parker's Colorblind Page 14

  43

  Jesse rode back into Paradise via Swan Harbor. You didn’t need to be a police chief or a seasoned homicide detective to get a sense that the bikers’ confrontation at the Scupper, Felicity Wileford’s assault, the cross-burning, the racist leaflets, and John Vandercamp’s shooting death added up to something more than a series of one-off, coincidental happenings. Jesse couldn’t be sure they were all related, but some of them had to be. He just needed to figure out which ones. If he could, maybe he’d come across some piece of evidence to help Alisha. And to his way of thinking, finding the soldier would be the key.

  He drove into the area he’d driven through the last time he was in town and found several Garrison’s Landscaping trucks, but not Roberto’s crew. Although Jesse didn’t doubt what Chief Forster had relayed to him, he wanted to talk to Roberto himself. Maybe there was something Chief Forster had missed. Then, just as he was ready to give up and move on, Jesse spotted the men in Roberto’s crew doing leaf removal on the lot of a barn-red saltbox colonial near the beachfront. He noticed Jim Garrison’s extended-bed Escalade parked behind the trucks. There was one last thing he noticed as he approached the crew: Roberto was nowhere in sight.

  Garrison, red-faced and already spoiling for a fight, marched up to Jesse before he could get near any of the men working the property. Though a few inches shorter than Jesse and probably a few years his senior, Garrison would have been a pretty formidable opponent, had Jesse actually taken the man up on his challenging behavior. And he had to give Garrison credit. He was still willing to do the work himself instead of just sitting on his ass at home.

  “You got trouble with your hearing, Stone?”

  “What?”

  Garrison’s lip twitched. “So you’re a comedian, too, huh?”

  “Not much of one,” Jesse said. “Where’s Roberto?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “It is if I want it to be.”

  Garrison pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket. “I’m getting Forster down here. Maybe he can draw you a picture, since you don’t seem to understand words so well.”

  Jesse shrugged. “Why the drama, Garrison?”

  “Because I don’t like you.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  Garrison sneered. “I know you well enough to know I don’t like you.”

  “I can’t argue with that. Where’s Roberto?”

  Garrison turned away from Jesse and punched up a number on his cell.

  “Yeah, Forster, that pain in the ass, Stone . . . Yeah, him, from Paradise. He’s harassing my men again. Get over here before I have to take care of this my . . . No, you listen to me, Forster . . . What do you mean you can’t come now? What do we pay you for? You’re what . . . Who? Okay, I guess I’m going to have to live with it, but . . .” Garrison stopped talking and stared at the phone. “That son of a—”

  Jesse supposed Chief Forster had hung up on Garrison. He also had a pretty good idea that Forster was sending one of his cops over to deliver a message to Jesse. It was pretty easy to figure out what the message would be: Go home.

  “You always treat the police chief like a paid employee?” Jesse asked Garrison before Garrison could say anything.

  “What?” Garrison got red-faced again. “He is a paid employee. Cops in this town understand their place.”

  Jesse didn’t touch that. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the SS flier and handed it to Garrison.

  “You know anything about this?”

  Garrison laughed as he tore it into pieces and let the wind blow it away. He pointed at his crew.

  “You deaf and blind, Stone? You know where those men come from. You think I would trust them with my money, with my equipment, with my customers, if I believed that stuff?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”

  Jesse could see Garrison getting ready to throw a punch when the Swan Harbor PD cruiser screeched to a stop a few feet away from them. And when Jesse saw the police officer getting out of the Impala, he smiled. The same could not be said of the cop.

  “Officer Daniels,” Jesse said. “I wanted to talk to you anyway.”

  “Chief Stone. Mr. Garrison.” Daniels nodded and came over to where the two men were standing.

  “Drake, will you tell Stone to get the fuck back to his town and leave my men the hell alone?”

  Daniels turned to Jesse. “Chief Stone, my boss asked me to ask you to please stop bothering Mr. Garrison and that he told you everything. He said you’d understand that.”

  “Okay. But let’s have a talk, Officer Daniels,” Jesse said, turning his back on Garrison and walking toward the Explorer.

  As he walked, he noticed one of the men from Garrison’s work crew staring at him. Jesse recognized him from the last time but didn’t know his name. He looked as if he had something to say. With Garrison and Daniels standing only several feet away, there was no chance for him to approach Jesse. Jesse didn’t want to get the man in trouble with Garrison, so he kept on walking. As he walked, Jesse dropped one of his cards onto the pavement. The man gave Jesse a quick nod and went back to raking leaves onto the big blue tarp.

  44

  Jesse waited by his Explorer for Officer Daniels to finish speaking with Garrison and to come over and talk to him, but Daniels never came. Instead he got into his cruiser and drove off. Jesse was about to follow him when the phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Chief Forster.

  “Jesse, I thought we had this all straightened out.”

  “We did, but I still have open cases and I still need to find the soldier.”

  “I would think that you’d have enough stuff to keep you busy after the . . . shooting in Paradise last night. How’s that going?”

  “I’m officially not part of the investigation, so I don’t know.”

  “Doesn’t look good, though,” Forster said.

  “No, it doesn’t. Reminds me, don’t you have better things to do than to run interference for a landscaper and one of your cops?”

  “You manage your department however you want to. I’ll do the same.”

  “Fair enough. Any word on the Wileford homicide?”

  “It’s not a homicide.”

  “You mean not yet.”

  “Stop worrying about what I mean or don’t mean,” Forster said. “Worry about what’s going on in Paradise.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “Jesse, I’m not kidding about this. Don’t come into town and flex your muscles again. I won’t stand for it.”

  Forster hung up. Jesse didn’t know what to make of it. Cops were, by nature, territorial. But it was hard to know if that’s what was going on with the chief of the Swan Harbor PD. Was Forster simply a wimp who was scared that the local businesspeople would kick him to the curb if he didn’t do their bidding? Or was it something else, something darker than that? Jesse wasn’t going to find out by leaning against the fender of his SUV, so he headed back into Paradise.

  * * *

  —

  DAISY’S WAS CROWDED AT LUNCH. Jesse was happy for her and for Cole, who would be raking in the tip money, but wished that her patrons weren’t mostly media types. He guessed the news-media invasion was inevitable. Even he could see that this story would play in every market. Everything about it, from Alisha’s skin color to John Vandercamp’s family lineage, made it a grand slam. And with Leon Vandercamp seemingly determined to exploit the death of his son, it was bound to get worse. Jesse could hear the sizzle words in his head: white supremacist, unarmed, African American, police shooting.

  As Jesse was ordering his sandwich, he realized that his presence hadn’t gone unnoticed. The noise of the conversations, the clatter of silverware and plates, hushed suddenly. Those things were replaced by loud whispers and the squeaking of people sliding out of vinyl booths, the rattle and
scraping of chairs on the tile flooring. When Jesse turned away from Daisy, he saw four people coming at him.

  The two women and two men approached him. Jesse recognized Rianne Phillips, the investigative reporter from a Boston TV affiliate. Handsome, with perfectly cut shoulder-length hair, she was impeccably dressed and made up. But Jesse knew not to dismiss her. She had always been tough but fair. He didn’t recognize the other woman. She was definitely a print journalist, dressed for comfort, not for the camera. He also recognized Esai Vasquez, another reporter for a Boston TV outlet. Tom Pemberton was from the Salem daily paper.

  “Chief Stone, can you confirm that the victim”—Esai looked down at his notes—“Mr. Vandercamp, was unarmed?”

  Jesse held his palms up.

  “Let me make this clear to all of you,” he said. “I can confirm or deny nothing. I am not party to the investigation. The investigation into the incident is being handled by state police personnel. All I can say is that the Paradise Police Department is cooperating with the investigation and that we will abide by their findings. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to get some lunch.”

  Jesse knew it wouldn’t end there. All he’d done was temporarily close one area for the media to pursue.

  “What about the Saviors of Society fliers that have been handed out in Paradise?” asked the woman print journalist. “Do you think there is any connection between the shooting of the unarmed son of the head of that organization by an African American policewoman?”

  Jesse answered with a question of his own: “Who are you?”

  “Casandra Mills from The Globe.”

  “We don’t know each other, Casandra, but if you ever want me to answer one of your questions, don’t put the answer you want in the question.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Do you think there is any connection between those fliers and the incident last night?”

  “Until the investigation is completed, it would be wrong for me to speculate.”

  Then Rianne Phillips asked the really hard question. “Did your department report a recent cross-burning incident as vandalism instead of a hate crime? If so, can you explain why?”

  “No comment, Rianne.”

  But Jesse made a mental note to have a talk with Rianne when no one else was around. He knew the Patels hadn’t leaked the information, and since his cops were under strict instructions about talking to the press during the investigation, he doubted one of them was the source. That left the person who’d burned the cross into the lawn, and if John Vandercamp was that person, he couldn’t have been the source. The question the reporter asked only cemented Jesse’s belief that there was more going on in his town than what you could see in the light.

  45

  As Jesse paid for his sandwich, Daisy nodded toward the back of the house. He understood. When he left the restaurant, he went through the alley and around to the back door. Daisy was waiting for him there.

  “What’s up, Daisy?”

  “The kid is great and I don’t want to lose him.”

  “But . . .”

  She pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “But I really can’t have him living back here if we’re going to be this busy. This ain’t normal busy. This is crazy busy, and I hate to say it, Jesse, but as long as this thing is a story, I—”

  “I got it, Daisy. Can you get through one more night?”

  She gave him a half-smile and winked. “For you, handsome, sure thing.”

  “Thanks. Anything I can do for you?”

  “Talk up my many virtues to Mayor Hottie.”

  Smiling, he turned and walked away. Finding Cole Slayton a place to sack out wasn’t exactly at the top of his priority list, but he remembered that old Chinese proverb about how when you rescue someone, that person becomes your responsibility. He hadn’t rescued Cole per se. Still, he felt responsible for him and felt a responsibility to Daisy. She’d given Cole a job on Jesse’s say-so, and now, with her being so busy, she needed the kid.

  * * *

  —

  BACK AT THE STATION, Jesse seemed to be looking at his half-eaten BLT. He was still hungry, just not for food. He was daydreaming, lost in the memory of James Earl Vandercamp patting his pocket and seeing the outline of the hip flask. That morphed into a vision of a tall glass of Johnnie Walker Black with a splash of soda and a squeeze of lime. He could almost see the bubbles rushing to the surface, smell the tang of the lime in the air, hear the tinkling of the ice cubes against the glass, taste the magic on his finger after he stirred. He remembered how it felt going down, the liquid cold from the ice but spreading warmth at the back of his throat, then in his belly and then . . . Is this how it’s always going to be? he wondered. Am I always going to want to drink so bad?

  He remembered all of those sessions with Dix. The ones when he had talked about all the lies and rationalizations he’d come up with over the years. It’s stress. It’s boredom. It’s depression. It’s work. It’s the pain in my shoulder. It’s the job. It’s Jenn. It’s to relax. It’s to get ready. They didn’t feel like lies when he spoke them. They all seemed real and true. But what it really felt like was love.

  Jesse dialed Bill’s number. It went to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. He figured he wouldn’t have to. Bill would know Jesse wasn’t calling to discuss how badly the Patriots were going to beat the Jets on Sunday. The bottom line was, he needed to get to a meeting, sooner rather than later. He went to the online meeting list, but before he could scroll through it, Molly stuck her head into the office after knocking. There were times he’d been happier to see her face, though he couldn’t recall when. Then he noticed her expression.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Some people are here to see you.”

  “What people?”

  “Mayor Walker and . . . Sam Mahorn.”

  “Reverend Sam Mahorn?”

  “Yep, Jesse, him.”

  “Send them in.”

  Jesse had a sense that once it got out that Alisha was African American and that the dead man was the son of the founder of the Saviors of Society, battle lines would be drawn and Paradise might become a political war zone. Now there was no doubt of it. Though not quite as much a polarizing figure as Leon Vandercamp, Reverend Sam, as the media and his followers called him, wasn’t beloved by all, especially not by police. He began his career as a preacher in a storefront church in 1980 in Newark, New Jersey, but came into national prominence when he led demonstrations through the streets of that city in the aftermath of a notorious incident involving two police officers and a sixteen-year-old black girl.

  The girl, Serena Jamerson, had been missing from her Ironbound neighborhood apartment for several days. Her mother reported this to the police. After her mother complained bitterly in the press that the police didn’t seem to take her concerns seriously enough, rumors surfaced that people had seen Serena getting into a patrol car on the night she disappeared. When Serena turned up two weeks later at a cousin’s apartment in Brooklyn, it was Reverend Sam and Serena’s mom who went to bring her home. The sensational tale she told the press went viral. She said that two white policemen had picked her up off the street, got her drunk, drugged her, and had taken her to a motel in New York City somewhere. She was too out of it to remember precisely where. She couldn’t remember what they had done to her, but she woke up days later in a back alley somewhere, alone and sore all over. The details of how she’d gotten from the alley to her cousin’s were again sketchy at best.

  By the time the smoke had cleared and it came out that the story was almost a complete fabrication, the world had changed. The careers of the two police officers in question were ruined and Serena’s family was forced to move somewhere out west. Reverend Sam Mahorn was famous. He had made the jump from small-time preacher to national civil rights leader. And for the past thirty years, every time there was a high-profile incident involving A
frican Americans and the police, Reverend Sam was there. Jesse couldn’t help but wonder what angle Mahorn would play in this case. He’d find out soon enough.

  46

  Reverend Sam had aged well. He was a tall, slender man with a regal bearing. He wasn’t particularly good-looking, but he had a lined face with a lot of character and an ingratiating smile. His head was shaved and his gray mustache perfectly trimmed. He carried himself like important men do, with a sense of style bordering on arrogance but that didn’t cross the line. As a former L.A. cop, Jesse was used to this pose. He even understood that for prominent public figures, the image they projected was crucial to how they were perceived. A superstar actor once confessed to Jesse that the public believes you are only what you believe you are.

  Reverend Sam held his right hand out to Jesse, smiling that famous smile of his. Mayor Walker, on the other hand, looked like she was about ready to be sick. Jesse realized she was probably more nervous about what her police chief would do than what the reverend would do. Jesse shook Mahorn’s hand—the man had a firm grip but not a challenging one—and gestured to the chairs in front of his desk.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chief Stone,” said Mahorn without a hint of guile. “Mayor Walker has been telling me that you fought hard to get Officer Davis on your department.”

  “Without the mayor’s support, all the fighting I did wouldn’t have mattered.”

  Reverend Sam bowed his head to the mayor. “I’m sure that’s the case, Chief Stone, but would you mind telling me why having Officer Davis as a member of your department was worth the fight?”

  “First, please call me Jesse.”

  Mahorn’s smile turned into a sneer and he laughed a derisive laugh.

  Mayor Walker got that sick look on her face again, and she stared at Jesse with no small measure of dread.