High Profile

While Marcy looked, Jesse walked to the front window of the small office and looked out at the narrow street that led to the harbor. The houses were close together. There were no yards. The front doors were separated from the street only by a narrow sidewalk. The street was too narrow to permit parking, and as Jesse stood there, no cars passed. Two hundred years ago it must have looked much the same.

“No Carey Longley,” Marcy said. “I do have a Carey Young.”

“Bingo,” Jesse said without turning around. “Maiden name.”

“They didn’t want anyone to know,” Marcy said.

“Trying to be private,” Jesse said.

“And dying very publicly,” Marcy said.

“Where’s the property?”

“Stiles Island,” Marcy said. “Outer side. Private beach, six rooms. Four-point-two million.”

“For six rooms?”

“That’s what it says.”

“You sell it?” Jesse said.

“No. Ed Reamer, at Keyes Realty.”

“Have an address for the house?” Jesse said.

“On the sheet,” Marcy said.

She stood and walked to the window and stood beside Jesse and handed him the sheet. Then she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Life’s pretty hard,” she said. “Isn’t it.”

“It is,” Jesse said.

“Want a hug?” Marcy said.

“I do,” he said.

35

It was a one-story stone house with a cedar-shingled roof. The living room occupied the entire front, all glass facing the ocean. There was a big fireplace on the right-hand end wall with a raised hearth. The kitchen was green granite and stainless steel. There were two bedrooms, each with a full bath, and a room with a smaller fireplace, which was probably going to be a den. The house was empty. The flagstone floors gleamed with a new finish. The walls were newly painted. There was no furniture, no rugs, no drapes, no china, no crystal, no toothpaste, no towels, nothing to suggest human life. Like seeing a person naked, Jesse thought.

He stood in the silent living room and stared out past the patio, and across the small silver beach, at the gray Atlantic Ocean. Here along the North Shore, the ocean was cold, Jesse knew, even in the summer. It took fortitude to swim in it. Jesse walked the length of the room. There was no place in the room where you couldn’t see the ocean.

They would have put the dining area here, Jesse thought. Near the kitchen. And in the winter, they would have had a big fire in the fireplace and had drinks from the built-in wet bar, and watched the spray splatter against the thermopane during a storm. This would have been Walton’s office. With the nice bay window looking at the ocean. This would have been the master bedroom, nice skylight. This one would have been the kid’s room. Jesse stood in the room feeling, suddenly, the thwarted reality of the ten-week fetus. He walked into the kitchen. A big range hood over a built-in barbecue. A pantry off the rear wall, with a walk-in refrigerator. The dream house. Every convenience. The dream must have seemed so close. Reach out and take hold of it. All of it. Wife and child. At long last, love. A walk-in refrigerator!

Jesse went in. The room was maybe eight by eight, with shelves along the three walls. There was nothing stored there. The shelves were empty. The compressor was shut off. The windowless room was warm. There was a thermostat on the wall. It was set to thirty-five. Jesse turned the switch on. Somewhere he could hear the compressor begin to run quietly. Soon he began to feel cold air. He walked around the empty space and saw nothing. He went back to the thermostat and shut it off and left the refrigeration room.

He stood for a time in the living room, listening to nothing, feeling the emptiness. Then he went outside and walked down to the beach and looked at the water. It was restless and active on the outer side of the island. There were whitecaps. The tide was high and there wasn’t much beach above the reach of the waves. The way the coastline curved, there were no other houses in sight, and he couldn’t see the road from where he stood.

He took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed.

“Molly,” he said. “I’m at Five Stiles Island Road. Send Peter Perkins out here with all his stuff. Tell him he’s going to be looking for blood.”

“Whose blood?” Molly said.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Has it to do with Walton Weeks?” Molly said.

“I don’t know yet.”

“But it might?” Molly said.