High Profile

“I’m still trying to fuck my way to the top,” Jenn said.

“But...” Sunny said.

“Jesse is like your ex-husband, you know? I can’t imagine life without him in it.”

“But...”

“Almost anything I know that matters, I learned from him,” Jenn said.

Sunny waited.

“I always needed to be somebody, and I always thought that what I had to offer was that I looked good and I could fuck,” Jenn said.

Sunny smiled.

“Most of us can,” Sunny said.

“But I do,” Jenn said. “Jesse was always somebody, you know? He was always so self-sufficient and complete and... somebody.”

“Except for you and drinking,” Sunny said.

“Yes,” Jenn said. “I think I kind of liked the drinking. It was a weakness, made him more human, sort of.”

“And you?”

Jenn smiled and nodded.

“I thought that was a weakness, too,” Jenn said. “You’ve had some therapy.”

“Yes.”

“One of my shrinks said if it weren’t for his weaknesses,” Jenn said, “me and booze, he would have been too complete, too... Jesse. If it weren’t for those weaknesses...”

“Of which you were one,” Sunny said.

Jenn nodded.

“Of which I was one,” she said. “Without those weaknesses, I probably couldn’t have loved him.”

Jenn moved her salad around with her fork, without eating any of it.

“How about you?” Jenn said to Sunny.

Sunny didn’t answer right away. She was looking out the window at the corner by King’s Chapel. The man was gone. She smiled without very much pleasure.

“Richie didn’t have any weaknesses,” she said.

21

“Being out of uniform,” Suit said. “Does this mean I’m a detective?”

“No,” Jesse said.

“If I was out of uniform and got a significant raise?” Suit said.

“Might,” Jesse said.

They were in New York, walking up West 57th Street.

“We’re going to see Walton Weeks’s manager,” Suit said.

“Tom Nolan,” Jesse said.

“In hopes of detecting who killed Walton,” Suit said.

“Yes.”

“So how come, if I’m detecting, I’m not a detective?”

They crossed Sixth Avenue with the light.

“Department’s not big enough to have detectives,” Jesse said.

“So I do detective work for patrolman’s pay,” Suit said.

“Exactly,” Jesse said.

They passed the back entrance to the Parker Meridien hotel across 57th Street.

“Who’s going to be there?” Suit said.

“With Nolan? The widow, and as much of the staff as he can get together.”

“Current widow.”

“Yes.”

“We going to talk about the broad being pregnant?” Suit said.

“We won’t introduce the topic.”

“You think they know?” Suit said.

“I mentioned it to the governor’s man, Kennfield,” Jesse said.

“And you figure he blabbed.”

“Yes.”

They turned into a narrow building on West 57th Street.

“And you kind of want to see if he blabbed to them,” Suit said.

“I do,” Jesse said.

“Always nice,” Suit said. “If you think a guy’s a jerk, and he confirms your suspicion.”

“Always,” Jesse said.

They rode the elevator to the penthouse and buzzed at the office door. A voice asked who they were.

“Chief Stone,” Jesse said, “and Detective Simpson, from Paradise, Massachusetts.”

Suit grinned.

“Detective Simpson,” he murmured.

After a moment the door clicked open and they went in. A well-groomed young woman showed them through a short reception area and into Tom Nolan’s office. It was a narrow room that stretched across the front of the building. A window wall looked out over a part of the West Side.

With seven people in the room, it was crowded. Nolan sat behind a semicircular desk on the left wall, facing the windows. Four people sat in chairs in front of the desk, with the windows at their backs. At the far end of the office was a small white piano. In between were too many small tables, extra chairs, hassocks, and floor lamps. Suit went and stood beside the windows. Jesse stood near Nolan’s desk. Introductions were made: Lorrie Weeks, the current wife; Stephanie Weeks, the previous wife; Alan Hendricks, Weeks’s researcher; Sam Gates, Weeks’s lawyer.

“Ellen Migliore now lives in Italy,” Nolan said. “So she isn’t here. There are other, less prominent people in Walton’s life, but I wasn’t sure how deep you wanted me to go in assembling the group.”

“Ellen Migliore is the first Mrs. Weeks?” Jesse said.

“Yes.”

“This group is fine,” Jesse said.

“As Mr. Nolan pointed out,” Jesse said, “I’m the chief of police in Paradise, Massachusetts, where Mr. Weeks and Ms. Longley were killed. The large young man by the window is Detective Simpson.”

Suit nodded gravely to the assemblage.

“First,” Jesse said. “We are sorry for your loss.”

“May I ask a question?” Gates asked.

“Sure.”

“Paradise is a small town, is it not?”

“It is,” Jesse said.

“How big a police force do you have?” Gates asked.

“Twelve,” Jesse said. “Plus me.”

“Isn’t it usual for the state police to step in when there’s a big crime and a small, perhaps inexperienced, force?”

“That’s quite common,” Jesse said.

“But not in this case?” Gates said.

“State police are standing by,” Jesse said.

“But you’re running the investigation,” Gates said.

“Yes.”

“This is a rather important murder,” Gates said.

“They all are,” Jesse said.

“Touché,” Gates said. “Let me rephrase. This murder has created national attention.”

“Murders,” Jesse said.