Night Passage (A Jesse Stone Novel)

wound him, you know, shoot him in the leg or something?”
    “You shoot, you always shoot to kill. It’s not the movies. You’re in a crisis situation, you got about a half second to do what needs to be done. Your heart’s pounding, you can’t swallow. It feels like you can’t get your breath and you got some guy with a machete. You aim for the middle of the mass and you try to remember not to jerk the trigger.”
    Abby nodded slowly as she watched his face.
    “Listening to you talk,” Abby said. “It’s in there.”
    “What exactly?” Jesse said.
    “I don’t know exactly. I sensed it when we made love. I guess I thought of it as, you know, ‘My he’s strong,’ ” Abby said. “But that wasn’t really it.”
    “Jenn said I was very fierce.”
    Abby nodded. “Something like that. I suppose you need to be that way if you’re a policeman.”
    “Maybe I’m a policeman because I’m that way,” Jesse said.
    “And that’s why you’re not scared of Jo Jo.”
    Jesse smiled.
    “It is prudent to be scared of Jo Jo. It would also be prudent of Jo Jo to be scared of me.”

25
     
    Pat swears he found Captain Cat when he got off the eleven-to-seven shift and parked the cruiser out front and went in to log off. There were three steps up to the front door of the police station. The cat was on the bottom step, dead, with a small sign hanging around its neck. On the sign was written slut in black Magic Marker. By the time Jesse got there most of the police had heard about Captain Cat and several of them had come in, though they weren’t on duty. Nobody said much. He was after all, only a cat. But he had been their cat and they liked him and they all could see that his death was about them.
    “I find the little punk asshole that did this,” Suitcase Simpson said, and realized he didn’t quite know what he’d do and so didn’t finish the sentence. But his round face was bright with anger.
    “What the hell does ‘slut’ mean?” Pat Sears said. “For crissake he’s a male cat.”
    Jesse picked up the cat and his head flopped loosely.
    “I’d say his neck is broken,” Jesse said.
    He put the cat back down.
    “Peter,” Jesse said to the evidence officer, “when you’ve done what you can do here, take the cat down to the vet and see what he died of. And dust that tag on him.”
    Perkins nodded. Jesse stood and went into the police station. He closed his office door and sat in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. “Slut” again, he thought. It didn’t fit with spray painting the cruiser, and it doesn’t fit with killing the cat. But of course it was not about the cruiser, Jesse knew that, or about the cat. It was about the police department and about somebody’s private connection to the word “slut.” Is it the whole department? Is it one cop? Is it me? Jesse laced his hands behind his head and let his mind go empty, letting the problem drift at the periphery of his consciousness, looking at it obliquely. He was still sitting, hands behind his head, feet up on the desk, lips pursed slightly, when Peter Perkins knocked on the door.
    “Vet says the cat’s neck is broken,” Perkins said. “Says he would have died immediately.”
    Jesse nodded.
    “There’s a little trace of dried blood on the cat’s claws,” Perkins said. “Not enough really to do me much good, but I figure Captain scratched the guy.”
    “Can you get a blood type?”
    “Not enough,” Perkins said. “It’s microscopic.”
    “How about state forensic?”
    “For what,” Perkins said. “A felinicide?”
    Jesse smiled slightly.
    “Might be a little embarrassing, I guess.”
    Perkins stood without speaking in front of Jesse’s desk.
    “You find anything else?” Jesse said.
    “No.”
    Jesse waited.
    “I,” Perkins started and stopped, looking for what he wanted to say. “I don’t like this thing, Jesse.”
    “What thing?”
    “The slut thing. The cruiser, now the cat. It’s an escalation.”
    “Yes,” Jesse said. “It is.”
    “Maybe this isn’t some kid.”
    “Maybe not,” Jesse said.
    “Maybe it’s serious,” Perkins said.
    “Maybe you need to take the microscopic blood samples into state forensic,” Jesse said.
    “It’s still on the cat’s claws,” Perkins said.
    “So take the cat.”
    “Jesus, Jesse.”
    “I’ll call over there,” Jesse said. “Sort of smooth the way for you.”
    Perkins nodded. He was not happy.
    “You think it could be important, Jesse?”
    “I