Fool Me Twice (15 page)

“On what charges?”

“Extortion. Grand theft. Threatening the life of a police officer.”

“Wow,” Suitcase said.

“Indeed,” Jesse said.

“When do you want these arrests made?”

“This morning.”

“Wow,” Suitcase said.

“You’ll need backup.”

“Okay.”

“Bring Steve Dickler and Bobby Harmon.”

“Okay.”

“Read them their rights and place them in separate cells in the tombs.”

Suitcase didn’t say anything.

“One more thing,” Jesse said.

“What’s that?”

“Oscar LaBrea may have suffered a recent facial accident. Take him down anyway. Cuffs and shackles. And add assault with a deadly weapon to his charges.”

Both men were silent for a while.

“May I ask you a question, Jesse?”

“Shoot.”

“What in the fuck happened?”

“Nothing good.”

“What did they do?”

“Everything as charged.”

“To you?”

“To me.”

“Yikes.”

“Exactly.”

Suitcase stood up.

“Oscar LaBrea threatened you with a weapon?”

“He did.”

“And you didn’t kill him?”

“Astonishing, isn’t it?”

“Is that why he suffered this so-called accident?”

“Possibly.”

Suitcase stared at him for several moments.

“What did you do to him?”

“Let’s just say his nose got out of joint.”

Suitcase looked at him, then he turned and headed for the door.

“Suit,” Jesse said.

Suitcase looked back at him.

“Let me know when it’s done.”

—

N
o sooner had Suitcase gone than Dave Muntz appeared.

“What’s up,” he said.

“Research,” Jesse said.

“What kind of research?”

“I want you to scour the Internet. Check Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Craigslist. Everything. I know it’s a long shot, but anything’s possible.”

“You want me to look for information regarding Ryan Rooney?”

“I want you to hunt for the anomaly. Anything that seems out of the ordinary. It’s probably a wild-goose chase, but I don’t think we should overlook anything.”

Muntz nodded. He headed for the door. Then he turned back.

“I’m impressed,” he said.

“Because I know about the Internet?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m a barrelful of surprises,” Jesse said. “You can’t afford to ignore this stuff. Everyone seems to be tuned in. Maybe the killer was, too.”

“Worth a try, I suppose.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

  46  

J
esse stopped off at the Town Hall on his way to the station.

He went to see Carter Hansen, who was alone in his office, staring at the ceiling.

“You heard,” Jesse said.

“That poor girl,” Hansen said.

“I’m sorry, Carter. I know how much this meant to you.”

“To all of us.”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“How’s the other one? The Greenberg girl?”

“Stabilized.”

“Will she pull through?”

“I hope so.”

“Is it true that the husband is the prime suspect?”

“I’d have to believe so.”

“Not the redskin?”

“The redskin? Jesus, Carter, what century are you living in?”

“He certainly had cause,” Hansen said.

“Try not to bandy about your racism,” Jesse said.

“Whatever,” Hansen said. “I think he did it.”

“You can’t be serious,” Jesse said.

“Dead serious,” Hansen said. “Particularly given the way she spoke to him the other day.”

“He didn’t do it.”

“How can you say that with such assurance?”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“I believe he did it,” Hansen said. “I don’t think that an actor could actually murder someone. Especially not his own wife.”

“You’re certainly entitled to your opinion, Carter, but you’re wrong.”

Jesse stood.

“I guess this wasn’t such a good idea,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I should have learned by now never to underestimate the depths of your buffoonery.”

“The door’s open,” Hansen said.

“I noticed,” Jesse said.

—

Y
ou actually called him a buffoon,” Molly said.

“In a manner of speaking,” Jesse said.

They were sitting in Jesse’s office. Jesse was drinking coffee.

“My tolerance factor is definitely diminished,” Jesse said.

“And you’re not afraid to let everyone know it.”

“He’s a moron.”

“He’s the head selectman.”

“Which isn’t a license to practice idiocy.”

“It’s a license to behave as he chooses.”

“That’s a load of crap.”

Molly stood. She sighed.

“Pete Perkins called,” she said.

“Can you get him for me, please?”

“Sore fingers, have we?”

“Don’t start.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

She left his office and after a few moments shouted, “Pete on line one.”

“Thank you.”

“You owe me.”

Jesse picked up the call.

“What’s up,” he said.

“There was a break-in at one of the cottages near the movie location.” Jesse didn’t say anything. “Two doors away from the murder site. Kitchen window was smashed. Looks like someone entered the cottage through it and stayed for a while.”

“Did you call in a CSI team?”

“We did. They just arrived.”

“Let me know what they find.”

“As soon as I know,” Perkins said.

—

C
aptain Healy on line four,” Molly said.

“I was right,” Healy said, when Jesse picked up.

“Meaning?”

“Lucas Wellstein.”

“He phoned?”

“He not only phoned, he’s on his way to Paradise.”

“Should I go into hiding?”

“You might want to consider it. Oh, and I’m on my way also.”

“Looking for ink, too?”

“Actually, I was hoping for a shot on
The View
.”

Jesse didn’t say anything. “You’ll want to keep an eye on your temper,” Healy said.

“Why would you say a thing like that?”

“You know why. I’ll be there within the hour.”

Healy ended the call. Jesse sat back in his chair.

He swiveled around and stared out the window.

—

J
esse noticed a black Crown Victoria sedan pull up in front of the station.

Four men climbed out. They wore identical black suits, gray ties, and dark sunglasses. They headed for the entrance.

After a few moments, Molly stuck her head into Jesse’s office.

“Special Agent Lucas Wellstein of the Federal Bureau of Investigation to see you.”

“Tell him I’m not in.”

“Too late.”

“You mean you told him I was here?”

“Proudly.”

“Jesus.”

Lucas Wellstein pushed past Molly and entered the office. He approached Jesse with his hand extended.

“Lucas Wellstein,” he said.

Jesse stood and accepted Wellstein’s hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Chief Stone,” Wellstein said.

“Jesse.”

“Excuse me?”

“The name’s Jesse.”

“Okay. Jesse,” Wellstein said, peering at him more closely.

Wellstein was an old-looking young man with an eminently forgettable moon-shaped face that featured coal-black eyes, which radiated paranoia and suspicion. His furtive glances from behind his horn-rimmed glasses, coupled with his self-conscious awkwardness, put Jesse in mind of Richard Nixon.

“We’re here regarding the Hinton murder case,” Wellstein said.

“And so fast, too.”

“Can you take us to the crime scene?”

“I can.”

Jesse didn’t move.

“Now,” Wellstein said.

“You mean you want to go now?”

“Yes.”

Jesse stood and looked at the door.

“Would you like me to take you there,” he said.

“Yes. I would.”

“Then please feel free to follow.”

Jesse looked at Molly, whose full-faced grin forced him to turn away.

Then it was on to the crime scene.

  47  

C
aptain Healy was already at the scene when Jesse and the cavalry arrived.

Lucas Wellstein approached him.

“Captain,” he said to Healy.

“Lucas,” Healy said.

“Where is everybody,” Wellstein said.

“Meaning,” Jesse said.

“The movie people. Where are they?”

“Once they got word that production had been suspended, they packed up and left.”

“Left town?”

“Probably they just went back to their local accommodations.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Sorry to hear what,” Jesse said.

“I had hoped they would remain on the site. So that I might question them.”

“We had no idea you would be coming. We did speak with each member of the cast and crew, and collected contact information for all of them.”

“‘We’?”

“My officers and I.”

Wellstein smiled sardonically.

“I’m sure you did an excellent job,” he said. “I still wish they had stayed. But, hey, that’s water under the bridge now, isn’t it?”

His smile reeked of both personal and professional insincerity.

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“We’ll be taking over from here,” Wellstein said. “Thank you for all that you’ve done.”

“Would you like to see the information we compiled?”

“Not just yet. I’ll get back to you about it.”

Neither Jesse nor Healy said anything.

“Can you show me the crime scene?”

Jesse led him to the spot where Marisol and Frankie had been shot.

“Killing took place right here,” Jesse said. “CSI unit already did their inspection.”

“That’s damned fine police work, Stone,” Wellstein said.

“You should also commend Captain Healy for that. I’m sure he’ll be appreciative.”

Wellstein looked at Jesse.

“Are you being condescending, Chief Stone?”

“Jesse.”

“I don’t take kindly to attitude . . . Jesse.”

“Neither do I.”

The two men stared at each other.

“Do we have a problem,” Wellstein said.

“I would hope not,” Jesse said.

“I would hope not, as well.”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“I think I can handle things from here,” Wellstein said.

“I would hope so,” Jesse said.

—

I
t’s uncanny,” Healy said as he and Jesse wandered away.

“What is,” Jesse said.

“How you manage to piss people off.”

“It’s a gift.”

“Lucas Wellstein isn’t someone you want to be on the wrong side of.”

“Too late now.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“What exactly was it that set you off?”

“I beg your pardon,” Jesse said.

“What about him got your goat?”

“Pretty much everything.”

“What everything?”

“Quit hocking me. You know exactly what I mean.”

Healy smiled.

“He is a bit of a shit,” Healy said.

“And that’s just for openers,” Jesse said.

  48  

J
esse had arranged to meet Frankie’s father, Henry Greenberg, at the hospital. He was already there when Jesse arrived.

Greenberg was a handsome man who was aging well. Jesse guessed him to be in his late fifties, still fit and youthful in appearance.

“Jesse Stone,” Jesse said as he approached Mr. Greenberg.

“Hank Greenberg.”

“Like the baseball player?”

“Better him than that crook from AIG.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Greenberg.”

“Hank.”

“Hank.”

“I’ve spoken with Dr. Lafferty,” Greenberg said. “He seems optimistic.”

“That’s the feeling I get.”

“Can you tell me what exactly happened?”

Jesse explained that it was primarily a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That she hadn’t been targeted.

“I’m sure she’d be happy to know that you’re here,” Jesse said.

“Lafferty said they would be moving her into a private room so that I can sit with her.”

“That’s a good sign.”

“I hope so. She’s all I’ve got.”

Jesse gave Greenberg his card and wrote his cell-phone number on it. He promised to stop by again.

“This is very nice of you,” Greenberg said.

“I’m rooting for her,” Jesse said.

—

D
id you really think you’d get away with it,” Jesse said.

He was seated on a straight-backed chair in the center aisle of the tombs, between the two rows of three cells each, in front of the one occupied by William J. Goodwin.

“Get away with what,” Goodwin said.

“Well,” Jesse said, “the crime, for starters.”

“We never thought anyone would catch on,” Goodwin said.

“You thought the rate hikes would continue to go unnoticed,” Jesse said.

“Yes,” Goodwin said.

Ida Fearnley was in the cell across from Goodwin’s, sitting on the cot, her head bowed.

Oscar LaBrea sat on a stool in the cell adjacent to Goodwin’s. His nose was heavily bandaged. The skin around his eyes was a deeply bruised blue-black, giving him the look of a demented badger.

The three of them presented a sad tableau.

“It’s not that your ideas don’t have merit,” Jesse said. “You make a compelling argument, and I’d like to believe that if you had gone about doing things legally, you might have been able to get some changes made.”

Goodwin didn’t say anything.

“Abusing the law never serves anyone’s purposes. How could you not have known that?”

Goodwin looked at the floor.

“What will happen to us,” Ida said.

“That’s for the courts to decide. I’ll be presenting your case to the district attorney this afternoon. He’ll take it from there.”

None of them spoke.

Jesse stood.

“For what it’s worth, you have my sympathies. You served the people of this town honorably for many years.”