Authors: Michael Brandman

Killing the Blues (10 page)

BOOK: Killing the Blues

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“Is she adroit in the field of public relations?”

“That would depend upon your definition of adroit.”

“This isn't going well.”

“What is it you want, Stone?”

“I want Ms. Richardson to prepare a press release.”

“What kind of press release?”

“One advising the population of Paradise to keep their dogs inside at night.”

Hansen didn't say anything.

“Well?”

After a moment Hansen picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“Marilyn,” he said. “Would you ask Alexis if she could step into my office for a moment?”

The two men sat in silence. Then Alexis Richardson walked in. Jesse stood.

“You remember Chief Stone, don't you,” Hansen said.

“I might,” she said. “Chief Stone.”

“Jesse.”

“Jesse. It's nice to see you again,” she said.

“It's nice to see you again,” Jesse said.

“All right,” Hansen said. “We can dispense with the hooyah. Chief Stone wants you to prepare a press release for him.”

“Regarding?”

“I'd like to catch the attention of the dog-owning population of Paradise. I want to advise them to keep their dogs inside after dark.”

“Is this related to the recent dog killings,” Alexis said.

“You know about the dog killings?”

“Small town. I'd be happy to help you, Jesse. If it's all right with you, Uncâuh, Selectman Hansen, perhaps Chief Stone could join me in my office.”

“Fine. That would be fine. Good day, Chief Stone.”

Alexis and Jesse left Hansen's office. Once they were outside, Jesse murmured under his breath, “Good day to you, too, Uncle Carter.”

Alexis punched him on the arm.

O
nce in her office, Jesse closed the door. He took her in his arms and kissed her. She returned the kiss.

“I suppose doing it on your desk would be out of the question,” Jesse said.

“Only during business hours,” she said.

“About the press release,” Jesse said.

He told her how to word it. He wanted to alert the newspapers, TV and radio stations, and the alternative media. He wanted flyers printed and posted in the library, the supermarkets, the coffee shops, and especially in the pet stores and veterinarians' offices. He didn't want to frighten people, just make them aware of a potential danger.

She promised to attend to it immediately. She hoped to make the evening news and appear in all of the next day's papers.

“That kiss was intriguing,” she said. “I was wondering if we might continue it this evening.”

“I'd have to check my schedule,” he said.

She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“Should I bring Chinese?”

“There's an idea,” Jesse said.

I
n the morning, after Alexis had left, Jesse went about his chores, which included feeding the cat. By now an uneasy truce had developed between them. The cat would sit on the love seat, watching as Jesse put out the food. It appeared ready to leap at the slightest provocation. Jesse would pretend to ignore it.

But on this morning, as Jesse was setting out a bowl of wet cat food, the cat jumped from the love seat and began rubbing itself against Jesse's legs, its tail standing straight up, shimmying.

Jesse reached down and ran his hand over the cat's back. It rubbed itself against him even harder. This went on for several moments, until the cat emitted a throaty croak. It then approached the dish and crouched down to eat.

Jesse smiled.

B
y the time he reached the office, there had been three calls regarding strangled dogs.

He was sitting in his office, surrounded by Molly Crane, Rich Bauer, Steve Lesnick, and Arthur Angstrom. Everyone but Molly was eating a donut.

“I want to establish a night patrol,” Jesse said. “I want two units on duty from ten p.m. to six a.m. Unmarked vehicles. Divide the town in half. One half per unit. Circle each half constantly, randomly, always on the lookout for something that appears strange.”

“Who's gonna man these patrols,” Molly said.

“Rich will be in charge. He'll take the lead vehicle. I want summer hires in the second.”

“What are we supposed to do if we do notice anything strange,” Bauer said.

“Bust it,” Jesse said.

“You mean make an arrest, Skipper,” Bauer said. “Uh, Jesse,” he quickly added.

“Correct.”

“What if we're wrong?”

“Better to be safe than sorry,” Jesse said. “If a mistake is made, so be it.”

“When do you want this to start,” Molly said.

“Tonight.”

The phone rang, and Molly went to her desk to answer it.

She called out to Jesse.

“Captain Healy on two,” she said.

Jesse looked at her.

“What happened to âI'll try it,'” Jesse said.

“Try what,” Molly said.

“The intercom.”

“I forgot.”

“You didn't forget,” Jesse said.

“Are you suggesting that I purposely refused to use the intercom?”

“I am.”

“Some nerve,” she said.

The others filed out of his office as Jesse picked up the call.

“Jesse,” he said.

“John Lombardo,” Healy said. “Interesting fellow. Definitely on the come. He appears to be connected to Gino Fish. My OC guys tell me he did a number of small jobs for Gino and has since graduated to more important stuff.”

“Such as?”

“He was linked to the construction rackets in the southern part of the state. In the Fall River area. We have reason to believe he may have done some wet work there. He seems to have recently moved to the Boston area. He drew attention making collections involving a few high rollers who had reneged on their obligations.”

“Which entailed?”

“In one instance, it entailed death. Which appeared enough to frighten the other recalcitrants into paying up,” Healy said.

“Is there anything to link him to automobile theft?”

“Not here. At least not yet. But he does have a track record in Fall River, which could indicate that he might be a person of interest.”

“Any idea where he can be found?”

“We're still working on that.”

“You'll let me know when you have something?”

“Top of my list.”

“That's hopeful.”

“This guy is the real deal, Jesse. He's lethal, and he's not afraid to let people know it. He's making a name for himself.”

“Mr. Lombardo may be misguided if he thinks he can put that name up in lights here in Paradise,” Jesse said.

“He probably doesn't know that.”

“He will.”

R
ollo sensed the change. First there were the stories in the newspapers. On the TV. Then the flyers in the stores. He knew it was time.

That night, carrying a small bag that he had earlier prepared, Rollo headed for Paradise Harbor. He melted into the shadows whenever he saw headlights. He had already noticed that the streets were now being patrolled. He took extra precautions to conceal himself.

Once at the harbor, Rollo made his way to one of the boardwalk refreshment stands. Each of them offered a different kind of fare. One had tacos. One had ice cream and cakes. One had burgers and fries. He had chosen the one that offered the burgers and fries.

Benny's Burgers. A shack, really. Wooden. The front end had a service window, which was boarded up at night.

The back end contained the grills and the fryers and a storage area.

The front end faced the boardwalk. The back opened onto the ocean.

There was no one on the boardwalk at two a.m. Just Rollo, standing behind the burger shack.

A fair amount of detritus had been collected and deposited behind the shack. Large plastic bags filled with garbage were awaiting early-morning pickup. Empty bottles and cans had been collected and stored in recycling bins.

The shack's back door did not close properly. It wasn't flush with the baseboard. Not only was there a gap at the bottom, but the door itself had warped and bowed at the top. It was a suitable target for Rollo.

First he withdrew two rolls of toilet paper from his bag. Then he took out two large cans of lighter fluid. Placing the nozzle of the first can through the gap at the bottom of the door, he sprayed nearly its entire contents inside the shack.

Then he unraveled the first roll of toilet paper and shoved as much of it as he could through the gap and into the shack. He then sprayed the remainder of the fluid on the paper and onto the door itself.

He unraveled the second roll of toilet paper, placing it in strips at the top of the door and also through a small opening that the bowed door provided. Whatever paper remained he placed on top of and below the garbage bags.

Using the second can of lighter fluid, he sprayed the door and then created a line of fluid trailing from underneath the door to a spot perhaps five feet away from it.

Satisfied, he wiped the two cans with Kleenex, thereby either smudging or removing any fingerprints. He placed the cans on top of the garbage bags.

He then pulled out a fireplace lighter. He tested it. It worked. He knelt down and ignited the line.

The fluid caught, and the fire raced along the line toward the shack. Once it reached the doused toilet paper, it roared into flame.

Rollo stepped back and watched the flames grow in intensity as they were fed by the fluid and the paper. The fire jumped to the garbage bags. The shack became an inferno.

Rollo retired to the shadows and quickly left the area. Once away from the harbor but within sight of it, he turned back to see what he had wrought. Benny's Burgers was ablaze. The fire had burned its way through the rear of the shack and was now furiously heading forward.

When it reached the deep fryers, the fire began to roar with a greater intensity. Then it appeared to die down.

All of a sudden an earsplitting explosion occurred. Fire and debris filled the night sky. Burning embers flew about, some landing on one of the nearby shacks, igniting it.

As Rollo hurried into the darkness, he could see the illumination in the night sky caused by the flaming harbor. The sound of sirens filled the air as the first engines raced toward the scene.

Rollo was certain that the voices had guided him correctly.

Fury. Destruction.

And this was still the beginning.

“It's only a matter of time, Jesse Stone,” he said.

J
esse had recruited Molly to accompany him. The reservation was for eight o'clock. She arrived conservatively dressed in a nicely tailored suit, carrying a practical handbag and wearing sensible shoes. Jesse wore his blue suit.

They parked half a block away and walked to Il Capriccio. The maÃ®tre d' showed them to a corner table that offered a view of the room.

When the waiter appeared with the menus, they each ordered a glass of Chianti. Jesse took in the restaurant.

He guessed it was nearly two-thirds full, not bad for a weeknight during tough economic times. A faint hint of music served as the background for the conversation and laughter that filled the room.

The center table was unoccupied, although Jesse noticed a “Reserved” sign on it. It had been set for eight people.

The waiter brought the wine and took Molly's and Jesse's orders. Lasagna for her, veal piccata for him.

“Who sits at the center table,” Jesse said. “Ben Affleck?”

The waiter laughed.

“I'm afraid not,” he said. “It's always reserved for one of our regulars.”

The waiter left.

Jesse looked up in time to see the party of eight being ushered to the center table. All eight diners were men; all were dressed in silk suits and ties. He quickly saw that seven of the men behaved in a deferential manner toward the eighth.

The eighth was a big man. Someone who had obviously started with a weight problem and had done nothing over time to curb it. He must have weighed three hundred pounds, and from the way he was examining the specials board, it was obvious how seriously he regarded his food.

“It's time,” Jesse said. “Do you have the number?”

“The one you gave me,” Molly said.

“Yes.”

“You want me to go into the ladies' room to make the call. And I'm to hang up as soon as the call is answered.”

BOOK: Killing the Blues

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