Night Passage (A Jesse Stone Novel)

demolition specialist

     
    Jesse’s fingers tapped softly on the desk as he read the personnel sheet.

     
    1970–1972 Underwater demolition specialist

     
    Holding the file in his lap, he swiveled his chair so he could stare out the window, past the driveway where the fire trucks parked, and look at the full strut of the Massachusetts fall. Jesse was never one for nature’s grandeur, and he wouldn’t get in a bus and ride very far to look at the leaves either. But since it was there it was nice to look at. Nothing like it in L.A. He watched the bright leaves for quite a while holding Lou Burke’s personnel file facedown in his lap.
    He was still sitting when Molly Crane came in from the dispatch desk, and stood in the doorway, leaning on the jamb. She often did that, didn’t really come in, didn’t really stay out, just lingered in the doorway to talk.
    “You thinking?” she said. “Or daydreaming.”
    “Looking at the leaves,” Jesse said.
    “I’m on break,” Molly said.
    Jesse nodded.
    “You going to that dance at the Yacht Club?” Molly said.
    “Yeah. You?”
    Molly laughed.
    “Are you kidding? The police department dispatcher?”
    “You’re a full-time police officer too,” Jesse said.
    “Yeah, that’ll make a difference. See how many other guys from the force are there.”
    “You ever been?”
    “I never even been inside the Yacht Club, except once when some lady got drunk and started to strip right in front of all the guests, and I had to go over there and drag her out.”
    “Drunk and disorderly?”
    “Yeah, that was the charge. Pretty good-looking babe, too,” Molly said. “By the time I got her in the cell she had taken off every stitch. I gave her my coat but she wouldn’t wear it. Kept saying she was free and was going to live free, or something like that. She was pretty drunk. Anyway all of my fellow officers were really worried about her and kept checking on her regularly to make sure she didn’t hurt herself or escape or anything.”
    Jesse smiled.
    “She still in town?” he said.
    “Oh sure. President of the little theater group, parent-teachers group, art association, you name it.”
    “She ever talk to you?”
    “Pretends she doesn’t know me,” Molly said.
    “Maybe she doesn’t,” Jesse said. “Drunks don’t always, you know.”
    “I’m Irish,” Molly said. “I know about drunks.”
    “She still drink a lot?”
    “I guess so. I don’t move in her circles, but she hasn’t required the cops again.”
    “Kind of a status-conscious town, you think?” Jesse said.
    “Oh yeah. Funny thing is that’s where all the prejudice is. The WASPs and the rich Jews get along fine. Neither one of them wants anything to do socially with working types.”
    “Maybe you’re generalizing a little,” Jesse said.
    “Oh yeah, whatever that means, I’m probably doing it. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t wish I was going to the Yacht Club. I’m just looking forward to your reaction.”
    “Maybe I won’t have one,” Jesse said.
    Molly smiled, still leaning on the doorjamb.
    “I know what you’re like, Jesse,” she said and pushed herself erect. “You’ll have one. But you won’t show it.”
    With that Molly walked away, letting the door swing shut behind her. That was also something she did. Molly was a great one for exit lines.
    Jesse looked back out the window and sat for a while longer. Then he stood and carried Lou Burke’s personnel folder back to his upright file and put it away. Then he went back to his desk and dialed up Charlie Buck in Wyoming.

56
     
    Paradise Neck was a narrow jut of land that angled out to form the eastern shore of Paradise Harbor on its inner shoreline, while it kept the open ocean at bay with its outer. There were two roads on the Neck. One along the outer shoreline and one along the inner. They joined at Plumtree Point, where the lighthouse stood. The Yacht Club was off the inner coast road on the Neck, down a narrow drive thickly arched with trees and into a broad parking area beside some outdoor tennis courts behind a huge, haphazard, white clapboard two-story building. Jesse was amused that when you approached this tabernacle of Paradise high culture, you came at it from the rear. The Yacht Club faced the ocean, cantilevered out over the rust-colored boulders and bedrock that the sea had unearthed over time, its vast picture windows beaded with sea spray. Jesse was amused also at the understated arrogance of the